


With Whom To Dance?

by WardenoftheNorth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dates, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Matchmaking, Romance, Yule Ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28595994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardenoftheNorth/pseuds/WardenoftheNorth
Summary: With the announcement of the Yule Ball, Harry feared that his usually-wonderful Christmas at Hogwarts had been ruined. He soon learns otherwise, and gains the greatest gift of all along the way.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom/Original Female Character(s), Rubeus Hagrid/Olympe Maxime, Viktor Krum/Ron Weasley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 199





	1. Prologue, or the coward's romance

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, great thanks to the people of the Flowerpot Discord for their help in editing, and inspiring this work. If you're a fan of this pairing, or just want a cool place to hang out and get great fic recs, I recommend there wholeheartedly. You'll likely find a lot of your favourite writers too, if you do join.

Chaos descended on a Monday. The world caved in, heaven evaporated from the sky and hell rose from the dirt of each and every hill and valley. Fire burned throughout, torching those loved and those lost, and brimstone snuffed out all those in-between.

In other words, the Yule Ball had been announced.

Doom seemed to tremble around the form of the Deputy Headmistress as she started to address the assembly of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students that formed Harry Potter's fourth year Transfiguration class. She appeared, as ever, as the consummate professional, yet there was a hint of grimness to her so-often strict and disapproving face; as though she could see the asteroid that was set to crash to Earth and kill them all, but rather than tell them to move and avoid the impact, she expected them to take it on the chin.

"The Yule Ball," she began, and with those three words, she held the absolute attention of every person in Harry's class. For some, like Lavender Brown and Mandy Brocklehurst, her voice was the proclamations of the almighty, yet for Harry, they were the echoing of distant war-drums. "Is a tradition dating back hundreds of years. A tradition that is to be revived this year. Such an event is open to those in fourth year and above, which if you could not already gather, includes each and every one of you. It is a time to form lasting bonds with those from other schools, celebrate one's own history and," Professor McGonagall's eyes darkened then, glaring into nothingness. " _Enjoy_ yourselves."

Chaos became carnage as the air filled with joyful cries and exuberant giggling. Lavender sounded as though she were seconds from fainting, the air in her lungs voided as she could not contain herself.

"However, you are still at Hogwarts and, while it is a ball, it is a school event. You would do well to remember that," Professor McGonagall breathed a quiet sigh and looked ready to continue in her cautioning against teenage impropriety, though the ringing of the bell prevented her from doing so. "It begins at eight, and ends at midnight - and dress robes must be worn!"

Her final words were shouted over the top of the bell's chime, though by then there was a mass exodus as nearly every student, in near perfect unison, had decided to run to their common room and declare themselves to stay at the castle over Christmas. Harry had grown accustomed to having the castle almost entirely to himself throughout the holidays and he certainly didn't look forward to having such a state swiped away from him, replaced by the cacophony of a horrid, glorified party.

Christmas had, in years past, been the time that he truly had begun to feel at home amongst the castle's walls. He'd explored its disused halls and abandoned rooms even before he'd come into possession of the Marauders Map. For a brief few weeks, he was King. Yet, as he stood up, he could feel himself being usurped, and it truly didn't feel fair. Everyone else had families to go back to, and suddenly they had conspired to take away the little that Harry could call his own.

"Mr Potter," called out Professor McGonagall, pulling him from his thoughts. By then, the classroom was empty with the exception of the pair of them, courtesy partially due to his own sore body after the first task though mostly to his distraction. Harry had imagined that Ron was still beside him, though even he had scampered away. "I'm to assume that you were paying attention to what it was that I was saying."

Harry nodded.

"There is, however, another piece of news that would concern you," she said, the beginnings of the ghost of a smile coming to her face. "As a champion, you are expected to attend the Yule Ball," she paused, peering down her nose at him. "And the champions and their partners are to open the ball."

Dread came to Harry in waves. He felt as though there was ice in his chest, stealing any warmth from his skin. "And by partners, you mean?"

"Dancing partners. Partners that the champions dance with," McGonagall said, with a cold chill to her voice. "And by champions, in this instance I mean you."

The ice inside of his chest grew then until it felt like he'd been punched by a yeti. "Would your opinion change if I were to say that, because I was illegally entered into the tournament, I am not a real champion and so should be excused?"

"Both my opinion and the fact of the matter would not change," she replied firmly. "The Goblet of Fire called forth your name. You outwitted a dragon. You are a champion, either through your own intentions or another's, it does not matter."

"And what would the penalty be if I were not to attend?" Harry asked, his voice soft and placating, though his own mind had frozen under his body's thawing chill, numb to her inevitable reply.

The Professor seemed to stand up yet straighter still, her ordinarily perfect posture made magnificent. "Harry James Potter, you are a student of my house, the house of Godric Gryffindor himself. You will not bring shame to our great house with such a cowardice," she pushed her nose to the air, her gaze utterly dismissive. "If you ever wish to represent Gryffindor, in Quidditch or in any other manner, you will attend. You will bring a date, you will dance, and you will be an ambassador for our school or so help me _God_ , you will live to regret it."

She swept away quickly after that, leaving Harry all alone in her classroom. The room held calm, at long last, though the calm was not peace, but the lull in-between calamities.

* * *

In the aftermath of Professor McGonagall's announcement, Harry had hoped to commiserate with Ron at his newfound misfortune, though his best friend had decided that the ball was not the horrid thing it so obviously was.

"It'll be great!" he declared, with a joy in his voice usually reserved for telling Harry that Chudley Cannons had won their latest match; as a result, it was not a voice he had not heard very often. "With how well you did in the task, you could take anyone you wanted!"

Despite the rift that Ron had brought between the two of them after Harry had been announced as the fourth champion, after all was said and done, Harry had held no desire to continue to remain at a distance to him. He enjoyed hanging out with him too much to be fussing over such matters. He'd forgiven him immediately, just as he knew that Ron would do the same if he were in his place. They were as close now as they had always been; no argument, great or small, would change that.

"I'd rather not take anyone at all," Harry replied. "I can't imagine dancing in front of three schools' worth of people makes for a great first date."

Ron scoffed. "Mate, it's the perfect first date," he asserted, again with undue aplomb. "A ball is as romantic as it gets. It's Christmas, you get to wear fancy robes and spend the evening dancing together," he seemed to remember himself, then, with a pause. "Anybody would love that."

"I'm sure it's romantic in theory," Harry agreed mildly. "But really?" He sighed. "All you'd do is spend the entire night trying not to make a fool of yourself in front of everyone. I bet there'll be music playing so you won't be able to talk to each other and dancing's just a really shit time, isn't it?"

"Dance a lot, do you?" Ron returned, watching Harry curiously. He crumpled the parchment that he'd been, until then, writing his Charms homework on, before bringing the tip of his wand to it. " _Incendio._ " The parchment caught fire, collapsing into a pile of ash and dust which he left on their table. "And yes, it is romantic. In fact, I'm pretty sure the only reason you don't want to be a part of it is because you're scared of how romantic it is."

Harry fought the urge to gasp, aghast at the sudden attack. "Are you saying I'm a coward?"

Ron nodded vehemently. "Yes!" he agreed. "You're a romance coward."

Harry gave him a look of pure befuddlement. "I'm a what?"

"A romance coward," repeated Ron. And, despite the repetition, he became no less assured. The repetition didn't make it sound any less ridiculous, though.

"I'm just saying that, if I wanted to _romance_ someone, I wouldn't go about doing it in full view of the world," Harry insisted, agitated. "If I wanted to romance someone, I'd want it to be private, and most importantly, where I wasn't being judged by every wizard in Britain."

Ron pressed his palms together, and then pointed to Harry with his paired hands. "Look, Harry, and listen," he began. "The very fact that people _could_ watch you make a fool of yourself is what makes it so romantic. There's real consequences there, isn't there?" He laughed, for a moment. "I mean seriously, if it goes wrong, it goes wrong."

"You're not helping."

"I think I am, actually," Ron argued. "It could be a catastrophe. It could be the end of you. You could walk in there The-Boy-Who-Lived and walk out The-Boy-Who-Accidentally-Broke-A-Girl's-Leg. But, _but_ , if it goes right, then suddenly the world shifts on its axis. The stars align. Two and two sum to suddenly make five," an odd look came over him then, his eyes moving from Harry for a moment to look over his shoulder to something behind him. "You have the rest of your life to spend talking to someone. You have that time to be together, alone, but you may only get a night like this once and the fact that it can go wrong is what makes it so special, not the reason to give up on it all."

Harry looked at Ron in an entirely new light, then. He hadn't thought that the boy held such depths, hidden or otherwise.

"And what about you, then?" Harry asked. "Who are _you_ asking?"

Yet again, Ron's drifted to look over Harry's shoulder, before he shook his head. "Oh, I don't think I'm gonna go," he told Harry, his words mumbled. "Besides, I haven't actually written my name to say that I'm staying for Christmas, and Mum will want me back home anyway."

"No," Harry said, simply, assertively. "You don't get to wax poetical about the excellence of organised romance and then not live by the beliefs you so absolutely hold." He folded his arms stubbornly. "If I have to go to this, you do too."

"Maybe I should be more clear," Ron said, extending his palms in placation, a red tinge to his skin beginning at his ears and spreading down his neck. "For people like you, the Yule Ball is a day for romance."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, his eyes squinting, confused. "People like me?"

Ron sighed. "People that are supposed to be seen. If the whole world were a stage, you're quite clearly a lead actor, and I'm a prop, or a stagehand, or _bloody_ sheep number four," he sighed again. "Besides, it doesn't matter if I wanted to go or not. Nobody would want to go with me."

"And have you asked anyone?" Harry asked. Ron shook his head quickly. "Then what you're saying has no proof. If I'm not allowed to be a coward in something I know will be awful, you can't be a coward in something you have every chance of liking."

"So I'm to do what?" Ron asked, his whole face having grown red by then. "Ask out every soul, living and breathing or otherwise, and be rejected by all and sundry until at last I find someone to take pity on me?"

"That seems to be the general idea," Harry agreed. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you were telling me to do the same thing not five minutes ago."

Ron laughed humourlessly. "The idea sounds far better when I'm not the one doing it." He pushed his face into his palms and let out an anguished groan behind his palms. "Merlin, girls have it so easy, don't they?" Ron kept his face hidden behind his hands. "They're the ones that get to do all the rejecting. I'm stuck being the one rejected."

Harry cast his mind back, to a few hours before, when he had been asked by a rather loud third-year girl in Hufflepuff who, he'd immediately recalled, had before been one of the more vocal supporters of Cedric Diggory, or rather one of Harry's more vocal detractors. "I don't think it's just girls, mate," Harry told him quietly. "Besides, I'm sure if you asked someone in the year below they'd go with you, seeing as they can't go otherwise."

"I'm not really into anyone younger." muttered Ron.

"Are you into having a date?"

"Clearly."

Harry made a hmm-ing noise. "Well then you might have to be."

Hermione arrived then, bursting through the library doors in a practised near-silence so as not to draw the ire of Madam Pince, before she made a direct path to the back corner table that the pair of them sat at, her bag falling to the wooden floor with a softened slam.

"Am I a romance coward?" Harry asked, and it was a credit to the three's friendship that she did not break her stride after hearing it.

"Are you acting in a way that's cowardly?" She immediately asked, settling into her chair, pulling forth a ream of parchment, her quills, and a thick tomb entitled 'Potions of the 15th Century'. "And, if so, is this cowardice centred around romance?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Is it cowardice if you're just avoiding something you're not going to enjoy?"

Hermione met his eyes for the first time that day. "Obviously," she told him. "This is about the Yule Ball, I take it?" She breathed a huffed sigh. "Thank goodness I'm going home for Christmas and avoiding all of this utter nonsense."

"Are you sure _you're_ not a romance coward?" Ron asked, forcing Harry to smother a laugh behind his hands.

Hermione offered Ron a cold glare that she'd evidently learned from Professor McGonagall. "I'd rather see my parents for the first time in four months than watch you and somebody's daughter engage in public copulation."

"That's a real shame, Hermione," Ron told her, in empty sincerity. "If only you'd stayed; you could've been that somebody."

Hermione continued to glare. "Are you capable of comprehending anything I say?" she asked, and she was so practised in the art of bickering with him that she managed to begin outlining her essay as she entered her tirade. "If I were somebody, it would be my daughter that you would henceforth copulate with, and that's perhaps more disgusting than what you had intended to say, by the way. If I raised a child to bring someone like you home, I'd call Childline on myself."

Harry smiled.

"You're such a great friend, Hermione," Ron told her, though he looked far more comfortable then than he had when it'd just been he and Harry there. "You're just so good at making me feel good about myself."

"I think I offer you the far more valuable service of bursting your entirely too large ego," Hermione commented, drawing a frown from Harry. Hermione caught it, her attention on him for a moment. "I've heard that you're going to have to dance to start the ball off."

"Apparently so." Harry replied, his eyes downcast as her words forced recollection from him.

Hermione placed her quill into her bag before her elbow rested on the table, her body leaning in, in childish curiosity. " _So_ ," she asked, the word lengthened as her voice became almost sing-song in tone. "Who are you going to take?"

"I thought this 'utter nonsense' was beneath your interest?" Harry asked, slightly amused though mostly stalling.

"No, I think the pageantry of balls and public affection is ridiculous," Hermione corrected. Harry gave Ron an 'I told you so' look, that Ron turned away from Harry to ignore. "I think my best friend having to go through that fresh hell is fascinating."

There was an odd look in Hermione's eyes as she spoke. In truth, she reminded him more of Lavender than of herself. Harry wondered then for a moment, though unfortunately his mind was entirely blank. The very idea of going to the ball had been an obstacle enough, let alone thinking of anyone specifically he'd actually like to spend an evening with. "I don't know," he told her, honestly. "There's not really anyone I have my eye on."

"What about Cho?" Ron asked quickly. "I thought you liked her last year."

Harry shrugged. With all that happened in only the first few months of their school year, last year felt an eternity ago, his thoughts of Cho Chang similarly distant. "Yeah, I s'pose," he agreed. "But with the tournament and everything, I haven't really had time to think about that sort of thing."

"But Cho _is_ still pretty though, isn't she?" Hermione prompted. "So why don't you ask her?"

"I don't know," he told her. "She doesn't seem like the right person," Harry turned to offer Ron a sharp look. "And before you start, this isn't me being a coward. I just think, if I'm going to risk every ounce of my self-respect on one night, it should be for the right person and I don't think it's her."

There was a hint of warmth to Hermione's eyes as she looked at him, then. "Well, I'm glad that you're giving this a lot of thought," she said, with a reproachful look toward Ron. "However, if Cho, who by your own admission you find very attractive and loves Quidditch as much as you do, isn't right, then who is right for you?"

Her words left Harry's mind blank, fog blanketing any corridor of conclusion that he might form. He stood suddenly and pulled his bag from under the table, sweeping his half-started essay inside carelessly. "I guess I've got until Christmas to work that out." He pulled his bag over his still-sore shoulder, the after effects of his efforts against the dragon still all too evident. "I've got to go and see Pomfrey." He gave Ron a final look. "Ron, get a date."

There was a limp to Harry's stride as he left the library, his injuries improving in the week after facing the horntail but not entirely absent. In the immediate aftermath, he'd thanked the world for his own good fortune, but then, he wished that the dragon had swatted him into a month-long coma so that he'd be free. Such fantasies, however, soon left his mind as he almost walked into the solid form of Viktor Krum.

There was an odd distraction to the Bulgarian that Harry had never seen before. In every other instance, there was a quiet watchfulness to him, his eyes surveying each and every thing, always; it seemed as though nothing could escape his notice, his eyes super-human in their focus. Yet, as he stood, hovering in front of the library windows, there was an odd normality to the world-famous seeker.

He didn't take a great deal of Harry after their near-collision, either, preferring to continue his perusal of the inside of the library. "Harry," he did offer, not once meeting his eyes. "How are you?"

"Terrific," Harry replied, bemused. "Anything I can help you with?"

Viktor did look at him then, but only for the briefest of moments. "Maybe so," he said, before he brushed past Harry and walked into the library. "Another time."

* * *

Unfortunately, as time passed after their conversation, Harry found Ron's verdict becoming truer by the day. Time had not allowed him to make sense of his feelings toward Cho or rather lack thereof, nor did time sway him toward saying yes to any of the girls that had invited him, either. He wouldn't call it cowardice yet, but he was fast running out of other things to call it.

It was rapidly becoming a problem, too. At the announcement of the ball, there had been an explosion of invitations, with couples tying themselves to one another and the desirable being taken account of at great pace. According to the school's consensus, Harry was now one of those too, and so his unresolved status was apparently a just cause for inter-school investigation.

To be the talk of the school most often meant that his life was in jeopardy; the tournament, the dementors, the basilisk. Yet, in those moments, he'd at least been gifted focus. Then, he knew what he'd had to do, and the whispers became mere white noise. But now, with his goals to his eyes entirely mystified, the whispers were all that he could hear.

Ron and Hermione, ever the excellent friends, had taken a irritatingly unified stance to avoid sitting with him in the Great Hall at mealtimes, much preferring the peace that came without him to the continual interruptions that seemed to plague his company. The rest of his house followed their example too, the space that his two best friends left unfilled.

The latest girl belonged to Beauxbatons, her light-blue robes suddenly appearing in his peripheral vision as he studiously pretended to read an alchemical book Dumbledore had once recommended that he read. She looked to be at least two years older than Harry, with sparkling blue eyes and black hair arranged so artfully that he thought that she ought to have been the muse of some great artist, rather than standing before him.

"Monsieur Potter," she said, her voice pleasant and lightly accented. "Would you like me to accompany you to the Yule Ball?"

Harry met her eyes for a moment, and found himself in crisis. There stood before him a girl so beautiful that he thought he might well have imagined her, except that his own mind could not produce a sight so great. Yet even she was not right.

"Why?" he blurted, entirely confused, his own mind spooling out into the world. "Why would you want to go with me?"

Of all of the things this girl had expected to hear in response, such a question did not rank highly. "Pardon?"

Harry dropped his book onto the table, and pushed his plate away, addressing her fully. He gestured to the bench on the other side of the table, his hand nearly acting of its own accord. She smoothed down her skirt and settled carefully across from him. "Why would you want to spend the evening with me?"

An eyebrow was quirked elegantly. "Are you seeking compliments?"

"No, not at all!" he assured, nearly jumping out of his seat in his urgency to say so. "I'm really just trying to make sense of my life at the moment," he offered her a quiet smile, before he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sure hundreds of people have asked you and I bet you probably share things in common with them, but you're standing here asking me, and I'm not so sure why."

"Maybe it is because of exactly that," she said. Sensing his confusion, she rushed to clarify. "Perhaps I wish to be the one asking?"

"Do you, though?"

She lifted her eyes to peer at the ceiling of the Great Hall and ponder for a collection of moments. "You're quite a mystery, monsieur Potter," she replied. "To be a champion so young, and to succeed as you did. I wished to learn more of you."

Harry laughed to himself. "There isn't much to me," he told her sincerely. "I'm pretty dull, outside of the unfortunately frequent occasions when the world tries to kill me."

Her eyes widened. "So the stories are true?" she asked. "About what you have done in your previous years?"

Harry could sense that their conversation had begun to gather the attention of those that sat further along the Gryffindor table. He realised then that, despite having lived together for over three years, most of his house hadn't actually heard of what had happened.

He nodded at her question. "That depends," he told her. "If you're talking about a basilisk, a hundred dementors and the philosopher's stone, then yes they all did happen." Harry shrugged. "Anything else probably didn't."

She looked at him oddly. "And yet despite having lived a life as incredible as yours, you do not understand why I would wish to spend the Yule Ball with you?"

Harry threw his hands. "But everyone's life is fascinating. We have _magic_ , for God's sake," he said. Then he turned where Ron and Hermione sat, extending an arm to point at them. "See those two?" She nodded. "They've done everything I have, so why doesn't everyone go and ask _them_ out. Why is it me?"

Hermione began glaring at him, and Ron seemed caught between pale-faced panic and jubilation.

"Truthfully?" the girl asked. Harry nodded. "I think it's your face."

"My face?" Harry repeated, slightly dumbly. "What do you mean, my face?" He poked at his own cheekbone. "Is my face nice to look at or something?"

A confused fog fell over the girl's eyes. "Yes - well sort of - I-I don't know," she managed to get out, genuinely struggling. She drew a breath purposefully. "You look like you're going to get hot when you're older."

Harry blinked.

"And you find that compelling?" Harry asked.

"Oui."

"So you're looking for something serious?" Harry's eyes scrunched together as he attempted to make sense of what she had said. "Do I look like a good investment, is that it?"

She shook her head. "Sort of." She smiled. "You seem like a fun project to take part in."

Harry smiled.

"Thank you for your honesty," he said, before laughing. "What's your name?"

"Aimée," Aimée said. She smiled back at him. "I assume this means you're rejecting me."

"Sort of," he said. Aimée didn't look greatly disappointed at his response, her smile not dimming. His eyes lit up in confusion. "Wait a minute," he tilted his head. "How can you tell that I'm going to get hot when I get older?"

She shrugged, demure. "I don't know. It is just a sense I get with you." She met his eyes intently, before she looked along his jawline and up to his hair. "You would suit a beard, and your eyes would look less haunting on an older face."

"Good to know," Harry replied, cheerily. He knew it to be stupid, but he found that he enjoyed comments on his appearance that were not solely around his apparent similarity to his parents, if only for the variety of it. There were only so many times you could be told that you had your mother's eyes, after all. "Is there anyone else you get that sense with?" He pointed toward Ernie McMillan. "What about him?"

Aimée shook her head quickly. "I don't think so."

Harry watched as the boy tried to pretend as though he wasn't listening. His shoulders sank at her words.

Harry flicked his eyes toward Colin Creevey, who had begun to creep closer and closer toward the pair of them down the long Gryffindor table. "And him?"

"He is cute now," Colin blushed at the praise. "But he is too young to know for sure."

Harry offered Colin a grin, and the boy nearly fell over himself. "Okay, I think I get it now," he told her. "What about him?"

Him was Neville, who by then was the only student sat on the Gryffindor table not listening into their conversation. Even on the ever-boisterous Gryffindor table, he looked rather lonely, cramped in on himself as he read the pages of a book on magical environments and their conservation with rapt attention.

Aimée hummed beneath her breath for a moment. "He might just be perfect."

Harry grinned widely. "Good," before his face grew serious. "He deserves someone kind."

She rose quickly, intent on being just that, and Harry could finally finish his lunch in peace. Around Harry, the air seemed to shift suddenly, and he wasn't approached for the rest of the time that he sat. Harry, in turn, took slightly more notice of his alchemy book, though not so much that he missed a blushing Neville facing the charms of Aimée. The rest of Gryffindor, and even the usually-loud Weasley twins, remained silent in solidarity as they all watched on, though mostly so they might not spoil their show.

* * *

At dinner, there came another girl, this one from Durmstrang. She was a short girl, of perhaps similar age to Harry, with a round face made striking by her smile; a sight brighter than any light that magic could create. There was a warmth to her visage that stood out against the darkness of her school's uniform, like the final red streak of a sunset before nightfall.

"May I sit?" she asked softly, with intentions of taking the still-open space across the table from him. There was a shyness to her eyes, their looks fleeting. Harry nodded, taking the book that he'd splayed open in his free hand and placing it face-down onto the table, his other hand circled around a glass of pumpkin juice. He pushed away his plate, and gave her his entire attention.

He noted, absent-mindedly, that she was the only student from one of the other schools that was then sat at the Gryffindor table. Most often, the other schools preferred the company of the Ravenclaws and Slytherins, with the occasional student drifting over to the Hufflepuffs.

"So," he began. After his conversation with Aimée, these little interludes were not quite as worrisome as they were before. "How can I help you?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, settling herself. "I was wondering if I could be your date to the ball?"

Harry gave her a small smile. "I'm sure you'd make for a lovely date, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no."

Disappointment didn't rise on her face, much to Harry's relief. "Might I ask why?" she did say, though.

Harry struggled there, his own actions still no more sensible even as he repeated them once more. "If I tell you, would you tell me why you asked?" she nodded quickly, and so Harry allowed himself a settling breath. "I just don't see you in that way. You're very pretty, and I'm sure you'd be lovely company, but I don't think you'd be the right company for me. Does that make sense?"

She nodded to his question. His words, as he could see, didn't offer a great deal of comfort, but they did settle easily. "So you believe in romance?" she asked. "You believe that these nights hold meaning beyond their barest details?"

Harry hadn't really given a great deal of thought to romance, and especially not as it related to himself. He'd not been on a date before, nor had he ever kissed a girl or even approached any feeling that could be called love. He knew he would want to, and that perhaps, in some distant sense, he knew love was an experience greater than just the people that expressed it. His own life had been saved by it, his mother's care manifested by magic to save that she adored.

As he'd grown up, he'd heard from every wizard or witch that had known them how great a romance his own parents had, of how much they cared for one another and of how well suited they were together. They had, by all accounts, loved fiercely and fearlessly, and perhaps, in some small part of Harry, he wished to do as they had done, and to live as they had lived.

"I think so," Harry agreed, quietly. "But, if I'm to be totally honest, I have to go to the ball whether I want to or not and if I'm to do this, I really ought to do it properly." He settled more comfortably in his seat, satisfied. "Now, I believe you said you'd tell me why you wanted to go with me."

"I have heard that you were raised in the muggle world; I was too," she explained. "There are not so many of us at my school, and I hoped to spend an evening with someone who I shared such things with."

"There are quite a few of us at Hogwarts, you know," Harry told her. "There aren't many in Slytherin, but in the other houses there's a lot." His brow furrowed for a moment. "Can I ask - why is it that your school doesn't sit with my house?"

"I think there are two reasons," she said quickly. "First, many of those from my school already know the ones in Slytherin house, and so it's easier for them to sit there," she leaned in, so as to whisper. "The second is that your house does not appear very welcoming."

Harry was taken aback by that. Of all of the things that could be lodged against Gryffindor, coldness was not one of them. They had taken him in with open arms, just as they had everyone else sorted into their house.

"What do you mean?" he asked, before quickly adding. "If it's because of something that the Slytherins have said, then I should mention that there's a rivalry between our houses that's been going on for about a thousand years, give or take."

"They have made some comments," she admitted. "But your house looks not so easy to approach. You appear a family, and we would not wish to go where we are interrupting."

There was sense to her words, too. At mealtimes, the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables were by far the loudest, with their members talking and shouting to one-another from one end of the table to the next. Ravenclaw, true to form, were often barely talking. Most brought with them books to read, and were always the quickest to leave the hall, rushing to their dorms or to the library. Slytherin were civil to one-another, and well-mannered at mealtimes, but their youngest members, in their odd decorum, reminded Harry strongly of Dudley whenever his parents had Vernon's boss over for tea.

"Well what good is a family if it doesn't welcome others?" Harry asked, mostly of himself. "I'd like to apologise then, for how we've come across. We'd love it if people joined us." He pointed toward Hermione and Dean, who sat talking passionately, to which both Ron and Seamus both looked on with utter bafflement. "They're muggle-raised, too, if you'd still be interested in talking to someone like us. Otherwise, you're welcome to join me."

Her gaze lingered on Dean. "Perhaps I will talk to them another time," she told him. "Do you truly mean that I can sit with you?"

Harry nodded, offering her a warm smile. "Of course," she sighed softly, the slightest of reliefs falling from her. "I would like to know your name, though."

In truth, Harry found it rather funny that they had decided to ask him to a ball without first saying who they were. It's understandable, though. It was a brave thing to ask out a stranger; an act that Harry himself had not yet brought himself to doing.

"Andrea," she said, giving him a bright smile; the sort of smile that made you wish to smile too.

"Andrea," Harry echoed. "Welcome to Gryffindor."

Their house was the host to many people. The bold, the daring, the brave. And, if one were to act as she had, their house would always have a place for her.

Harry wished only that his own heart might follow suit in boldness, and announce itself to him soon.


	2. Conspiracy, thy name is Fleur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Charlennette for the help with this chapter. She writes excellent pieces; the most thoughtful works in this ship, to my eyes. So, do check her stuff out, especially 'A Lily by any Other Name'.

Despite the patchwork of its thatched roof and the cracks in its stonework that it had gained over the years, there was a warmth to Hagrid's home that even the most biting of Scotland's winter chills could not break through. And, whenever Harry found himself in Hagrid's presence, the great majority of his worries melted away.

"Come in here," Hagrid called out to Harry, his voice climbing above the wind that rushed through the cold December air. "You'll catch a cold out there."

Harry did as he was bid without hesitation, following the man inside, where a fire had already been burning for a long while and a kettle was already set to boil. He settled into one of Hagrid's chairs, its size so great that he felt, as he always did, that he'd been shrunk in the wash.

"Always nice to see ya, Harry," said Hagrid, settling down a mug in front of him delicately, and with a warm smile breaking through his great beard.

"I wanted to thank you for helping me out in the first task," Harry said, and with it making a mental note to visit his first friend more. "I'd never have stood a chance without you."

Hagrid waved away his words, his own tea sloshing in its mug as he did. "Don't say that, Harry!" he denied. "You'd do fine without me, I'm sure."

"I definitely wouldn't," Harry further insisted before adding with a note of finality. "Without you, I'd have had no chance."

Hagrid seemed to shrink into himself at his words, the very small amount of his cheeks visible through his beard reddening. "They're lovely creatures dragons, really," he mumbled behind his tea. "Just a bit misunderstood is all."

Harry's eyes watched out of the window, and into the white of the snow-filled sky, before turning toward the fire. "How are things with the Madame Maxime, anyway?" he asked, suddenly. "Seems like you two got along well. Are you thinking of asking her to Yule Ball?"

Hagrid grew even redder. "I don't know about that," he replied quietly; as quiet as Harry had ever heard him. "She's a sophisticated woman, Olympe is." His eyes found the floor and stayed there. "I don't think she'd want to spend her time with, well, someone like me."

"What do you mean 'someone like you'?" Harry asked, his voice beginning to rise. "She'd be lucky to have you!"

Hagrid fell back into his chair, despondent. "She's a Headmistress, Harry, and I'm just a groundskeeper," he said. "She's got a mastery in Charms and I've not got OWLs. I didn't even finish school." He shook his head, and in doing so Harry could see his eyes were shining. "Face it Harry, she deserves better than me."

"Hagrid," began Harry, his voice sharp enough to cause the older man's head to rise to look at him. "You're a Professor at the best school in the world, and you know more about animals than anybody I know; more than a stupid textbook or qualification could ever give you. You've been nothing but good to me and all of my friends-"

Harry stopped there to take a breath.

"Just, she'd be lucky," he finished, quietly. "And she seemed happier with you when you showed her the dragons than she usually is, too. And the worst that could happen is she says no."

Hagrid nodded to himself. "She did seem happy, didn't she?"

Harry smiled. "Yeah, she did," he told Hagrid. "And, if you take her to the ball, she'll have someone she can dance with."

"I do like dancing." Hagrid added.

Harry clapped his hands together. "There you go!" he exclaimed. Hagrid laughed, though it did not boom as it most often did. "I tell you what, Hagrid. If you ask Madame Maxime to the ball, I'll ask the Beauxbatons students about her; try and find what she likes, so you can make sure you get off on the right foot."

"You'd do that for me, Harry?"

"Without a doubt," Harry said quickly. "With all you've done for me, it's the least I could do."

Hagrid smiled then, with a giddiness that made him look decades younger. Fang, Hagrid's dog, appeared from his room and came to rest at Harry's feet, his head sitting in his lap.

"Are you looking forward to the ball then?" Hagrid asked.

"I'm not sure," Harry replied.

"Why not?" Hagrid questioned. "It's a night hanging out with your friends."

"Yeah, and with everyone _else_ , too."

"But they're not important. You don't care about what someone like Malfoy thinks of you now, so why would you care then?" Harry found himself nodding to his words. "Just go and enjoy yourself, ignore the rest of them. They're not worth bothering about."

Harry found himself startled, for in moments, Hagrid had unwound the Gordian knot of his thoughts with absolute ease. Sometimes things were, strangely, rather simple.

* * *

Aimée was, of course, the first person Harry thought to ask about Madame Maxime, as she'd decided to take residence on the Gryffindor table at almost every mealtime, though only rarely _with_ Neville. Most often, she and her friends sat in the space surrounding Harry, and yet her eyes always seemed to drift along the length of the table to watch Neville stare transfixed at one tome or another. Andrea joined them often too, quietly, though most often she found herself by the side of Hermione, who had struck up an immediate friendship with her over Star Wars, of all things.

He thought it odd that Aimée could be so forthright and so confident with Harry himself, and yet with Neville, she transformed into a form altogether shy.

"Why don't you just talk to him again?" Harry did ask, after having watched the odd occasion occur on one too many occasions. "He really did seem to like you."

"She is playing hard to get," said one of her friends, to whom Harry had not been introduced, yet still continued to sit with him on most afternoons.

Harry doubted her claim greatly; there was far too much pining in her eyes for that to be the case.

Aimée, however, looked at Harry with an odd intensity. "Did he truly say he liked me?"

Harry glanced for a fraction of a moment toward Neville, and by no surprise did he find the boy's interest to be centred around Aimée, and not the book he held in his hands. "Definitely," Harry added. "His exact words were, to quote, 'I don't understand why a girl that pretty was talking to me'."

He'd said those words on several occasions, too, and to almost anyone near enough to hear them. She'd made, it seemed, the greatest of first impressions.

"Then why does he never approach me?" Aimée asked. "Each day, it is always me that speaks first and I'm beginning to feel that I'm bothering him."

Harry smiled. "I don't think you could ever bother him," he told her. "I imagine he probably feels the same, though. Scared to bother you."

It was a fear that seemed to grip almost all of the boys in the castle, as of late. Harry suspected if one were to bring in a boggart then, it would not be Lord Voldemort that it so frequently turned into, but a crowd of pretty girls, giggling behind their hands and staring in derision.

Boys seemed to peel away from their friends from the corridors with hopes of talking to someone, only to return forlorn, their eyes a thousand miles away. Yet, such was the voracity of love, the hunger of desire, the vengeful plea of affection, those same boys returned the day after, and the day after that too, to perform the dance anew.

As Harry had delved into his thoughts, Neville, it seemed, had forded the streams of his fear, and approached Aimée himself. He took a deep breath, so as to settle himself.

"Could I talk to you?" he asked, and his words came out so quickly that they nearly blurred into one. Thankfully, Aimée offered him a bright smile.

"Of course," she said, already standing as she spoke. Aimée hugged Neville, before winding her arm through his, her hand holding onto his upper arm.

The pair fled the Great Hall as quickly as one could without running, and in doing so had the full attention of every Gryffindor there. Some, like Seamus and Cormac McLaggen, held unveiled jealousy in their eyes, yet still, they did not comment until Neville had left. It was only then that Harry had forgotten to ask about her Headmistress.

"Do any of you happen to know Madame Maxime very well?" Harry then asked Aimée's friends. They seemed to shake their heads collectively.

"Trying to butter up a judge?" Émilie, the girl who sat closest to Harry, asked. She was the seeker for her house back at Beauxbatons, and they found that they shared an odd, instant fraternity as a result.

"Not quite," Harry responded. The intention was buttering, but he wasn't the one holding the butter, so to say. "Just wondering what she's like is all."

"She's quite private," Émilie offered. "She still teaches the higher year's Charms classes, but otherwise she does not speak to many people."

That was almost completely at odds with Dumbledore, Harry thought. The man might not teach, but he was almost folkloric in his ability to appear behind one's shoulder at a moment's notice, speak in riddles and then leave before you could even begin to understand a word of what he'd said. _Everyone_ had a Dumbledore story.

Harry sighed, put out by her words. "Is there anyone that she is quite close with, then?" he furthered. "Does she have a protégé or something?"

"Well, there is one," Émilie said, quietly. "But she does not speak with anyone else much."

Harry had a fair idea of where this was going.

"Fleur Delacour, I take it?" he guessed, resigned. They nodded quickly.

"Wonderful," Harry said. "Excellent."

Harry had limited exposure to Fleur, but from what he'd seen, she was not his biggest fan, or a fan of anything about Hogwarts or really anything in general. Quite frankly, she'd been unenthused about almost everything that he'd seen her come across, and he doubted that this would be any different.

In truth, Harry didn't know what to make of her. If he were in her shoes and had to go from a paradisal palace in the south of France to a freezing cold castle in Scotland, he doubted he would've had the sunniest disposition either. And, after having suffered through some of the less-than-thoughtful advances of his would-be suitors, he found himself astounded that she didn't hex every person that even looked like asking her out.

However, Harry had made a promise to Hagrid, and he wasn't about to break it.

Émilie nudged his side, shaking him from his thoughts, and pointed to a boy that stood before him; a boy he knew to be Justin Finch-Fletchley.

"Alright," said Harry, to Justin. Despite being in the same year, and having shared classes for four years by then, they'd never really spoken with one another. Harry supposed that, being muggle-born, he himself didn't hold any great intrigue to Justin. And, equally, Harry had met enough upper-class posh boys at the Dursley's dinner parties to be at all intrigued by the once-intended Etonian. "Can I help you?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to go to the Ball with me?" Justin asked, without a trace of nerves upon his voice.

Harry paused for a moment, thoughtful. Justin wasn't a pain to look at by any stretch. If Harry thought about him long enough, he could've found himself calling him handsome, albeit slightly foppish, however, he knew that Justin wasn't the answer to the riddle that he was continually asking of himself.

"I think I'm going to have to say no," Harry said gently. His brow furrowed for a moment. "Aren't you going out with Ernie, anyway?"

Justin, without prompting, sat down in the space that Aimée had vacated. Her friends didn't seem to mind though, the spectacle already proving much too interesting. "Well, we sort of…broke up?" he said, his word half question and half statement. "And, given that you haven't said yes to any members of the fairer sex." One of the girls giggled quietly, charmed. "I thought your interests might lay elsewhere."

Harry was beginning to understand why Ernie had broken up with him.

"Unfortunately not," replied Harry.

"Well then - what are you looking for?" Justin questioned, before offering Émilie a flirtatious smile. "If a girl as beautiful as the ones before you can't sway your interest, who can?"

It was an apt, though unwelcome question.

As time went on, Harry found himself becoming more and more confounded by the ease that his peers found attachment. In Justin, whose eyes did not know a place that they would not wander, or Lavender, for whom love was an ideal so desired she found herself forcing every boy she came across into its form.

Yet, with Harry, there seemed to be a disconnection between it all. He was attracted to Aimee, and to Andrea and Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones and Parvati and Cho, but that didn't seem enough. He wanted, needed, the stars to feel as though they were aligning. He wanted a girl to remind him of first performing magic, and of first taking flight, and of first laughing. And, perhaps that was an ideal beyond what could be expected, but he simply could not settle for less.

He did not search, therefore, for pretty faces, but for moments, instances. In spaces where sparks might fly. In looks that would grow to be more. In words that need not be spoken, for both the speaker and the audience already knew what was to be said before it was ever said.

"I suppose I'll know when I see it," said Harry, before leaving the table, and leaving with the realisation that Justin had not heard him, for he found himself lost in Émilie's eyes.

* * *

There was no great difficulty in finding Fleur, of course, as she seemed to at all times to possess a procession of interested parties, all clamouring for her hand. The spectacle of it all was interesting to watch, in a way. The many manners that the boys and girls put their foot in their mouth in front of her. The fog that fell in front of their eyes at the sight of her. The blind, unblunted optimism.

The moment she arrived at the Quad courtyard, therefore, a hundred followers flocked there too. Harry was amazed to find Ron of all people, _watching_ the entire affair, rather than join her long and ever-growing queue. He offered his best friend a quizzical look, to which Ron shrugged easily.

"I'm waiting for Fred and George to ask her out," Ron explained. "'Said they were going to offer themselves as a package deal."

"Didn't fancy giving it a go yourself?" Harry asked him, his expression unaltered.

Ron laughed. "I don't think so mate. I think I'd prefer to set my sights somewhere more realistic."

"Weren't you the one talking about the mythos and grandeur of love before?" Harry then asked. "Surely you'd want to set your sights as high as possible?"

"It's about how special _you_ think the person is, Harry, not how special everyone else does," Ron admonished. "Merlin, it's like you've never even read a romance novel before."

He hadn't. He was astounded Ron had.

"Forgive me for my ignorance, oh great wise one," Harry faux-pleaded, before returning to his regular register. "I look forward to meeting _your_ special someone, then."

Ron stood up straighter, his arms folding across his chest. "You will, actually."

Harry's eyes widened. "You've got a date, already?" he asked. "Who is it?"

"Don't sound so shocked," Ron replied, scoffing. "Anyway, it's a surprise."

"Sorry," he said, though confusion still lingered. Harry had expected his best friend to be screaming from the rooftops about it all, and after his newfound venture into romanticism, doubly so. Yet, there was a quiet nervousness about him that Harry found peculiar. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"When I work it out myself, you'll be the first to know."

Harry allowed a moment's silence, though his own curiosity couldn't be held back much longer than that.

"It's not anyone awful is it?" he asked, and in his mind's eye seeing his best friend in the clutches of Pansy Parkinson or Tracey Davis. He had to hold back a shudder at such a thought.

Ron shook his head in firm denial. "Definitely not!" he assured, before his voice grew slightly speculative. "Just…different, I guess. Not someone I'd ever expected to be interested, though."

Harry thought to ask further, but Ron had already turned away from him and toward Fleur.

The latest of her perhaps-partners was a boy from Hufflepuff, whom Harry thought looked like he should still be in primary school, for he was about a half of Fleur's height, and so was forced to look almost-entirely upward in order to deliver his offer of companionship.

For a brief moment, Harry found himself worrying over what she might do or say to the boy. Her prior refusals had left a trail of anguish in the castle; most often, she managed it without a word spoken to the offering party, either. Thankfully, such fears were unfounded, as she gave the younger boy a small smile, her hand ruffling his hair as she whispered an apologetic refusal.

Nonetheless, the boy seemed to be floating on air as he left her to re-join his friends, his hand passing over his own hair, mimicking Fleur's own touch reverently.

"Have I missed the show yet?" asked Katie Bell, who seemed to appear from nowhere and suddenly stand beside Harry. Her presence brought a smile to Harry's face as she hugged him briefly, companionably.

She was a tactile person, Harry knew. From the first Quidditch training sessions they'd spent together, Katie had been one to celebrate every goal she scored with a hug. It was how she said hello, goodbye, thank you and sorry. To begin with, Harry hadn't known what to make of it, as he'd never really came across someone who'd behaved in such a way, but as he'd grown to know her, the act was such a reflection of her kindness, an action he connected so absolutely with Katie, that he couldn't help but welcome it.

"Not yet," Harry told her. "How's things?"

Katie grinned. "Eh, same old same old," she said, pushing a hair behind her ear. "I heard you've started playing cupid."

Harry looked at Ron, a question in his eyes.

"Well it's true, isn't it?" Ron asked rhetorically. "You managed to get Neville shacked up and Justin couldn't stop going on about his beautiful French flower in Defence today; 'thought Mad-eye was going to hex his tongue off."

"It wasn't really my intention." Harry rushed to tell her.

"I think it's quite sweet," Katie reassured him. "You'll have your own little lonely hearts club in no time."

"Are you looking for some help there?" Harry asked, teasing.

She shook her head. "I've already gotten myself a date, thank you. Roger asked me."

"Davies?" Harry clarified.

"The one and only," Katie confirmed. They were childhood friends, Harry knew. They'd played on the same under-ten's Quidditch teams, with Katie playing a year above her own age group. The invitation was a long-time coming therefore. "Are you still looking for someone, Harry?" He nodded. "Well, Leanne is still available, and she may or may not have asked me to put a good word in on her behalf."

"I'll keep it in mind," Harry told her.

"Or," added Katie. "Failing that, if you could somehow get Marcus Belby to stop making eyes at her and actually pluck up the courage to ask her, she'd appreciate that too."

"Doesn't Davies share dorms with him?" Harry asked. "Why not get him to do it?"

"That…is an _excellent_ point," Katie arrived at, realisation dawning in her eyes. "Why hadn't I thought of that?" She offered Harry an appraising look. "You're good at this matchmaking lark."

"Well, if I lose my arms in the tournament and can't play Quidditch ever again, at least I have that to fall back on."

'The show', as Katie so accurately described, began then in a manner typical to the style of the Weasley twins; an enormous explosion. However, the noise was not explosive in nature, but pyrotechnic.

Fireworks filled the air of the courtyard, though their crashing drone was soon displaced by the sound of a choir, and then violins. There was a veil of smoke, and then Fred and George appeared from nothing, side-by-side and on bended knee. Harry looked up, to find that the fireworks spelled out 'Fleur Delacour, please say yes'.

However, in the commotion, Fleur was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The easiest method to talk to Fleur, Harry had decided, was not to talk to her at all, but rather to send her a letter. Of all of the ways he'd considered, that was the method that placed the greatest distance between the pair of them, and as such was the one that had the lowest likelihood of him being hexed.

He'd made the effort to write the letter in French, too. Harry had learned the language at primary school courtesy of Mrs Tremblay; it was the subject he'd most excelled at when he was younger, to the extent that according to her, he was near-fluent as he'd finished year six. He'd enjoyed learning it a great deal, so much so that he'd joined the after-school club devoted to the subject which, on most days, would be comprised of just him and his instructor.

He missed speaking the language, too, though admittedly not enough to tell Aimée and her friends that he understood all of their supposedly-secret comments.

After the summer between their second and third year, he'd been heartened to hear that Hermione had holidayed in Grenoble, hoping that her time in the country had swayed her into learning French. She'd attempted to learn, Hermione had told him, but had grown tired quickly of being bad at a language she would so rarely use, and returned to studying subjects that she was actually good at.

Therefore, he found himself in the company of Hedwig once more, though in Astronomy tower rather than the owlery. From what Harry could gather, there was something of a lover's quarrel between five or six of the messenger owls that lived in the owlery. His own companion had quickly grown tired of it all and moved residences as a result.

Harry found himself studying the tower with curiosity. Due to the nature of the subject, he'd never been there when the sky was not pitch-black and so had never had a moment to take it in fully. It was almost entirely deserted, too, as despite it being a couple's hotspot, the hour was decidedly too early for such activities.

Above his head, carved depictions of the sky's stars aligned in their constellations, a thousand years old and yet still immaculate. The moon, in all of its phases, too. There were tapestries adorning the walls too, formed in a time where the people of the world thought the threads of fate were held in the heavens above. The art moved along the stones, in eclipses lunar and solar, in northern lights and earthly equinox.

"I had hoped to find peace," spoke a familiar, feminine voice from behind Harry, their presence unnoticed in his perusal. "Yet, here you are."

Harry frowned, with his back still to the girl that had spoken up. She was from Beauxbatons, he assumed based on the accent. Probably one of Aimée's friends. "I'll be gone in no time."

Quickly, he approached Hedwig with his letter for Fleur. Yet strangely she refused to take the letter and, in an oddly human action, waved his attempts to give it to her with her wing.

Harry stared at the owl inquisitively, and Hedwig stared back, unblinking and unbothered. For a moment, there was a war of wills until, finally, Hedwig peered over his shoulder, the action causing Harry to follow the direction of her gaze.

Which, in turn, found him looking into the eyes of the intended recipient of his letter, Fleur Delacour.

"A letter, hmm," Fleur began to inquire, her eyes falling to the parchment in his hands. "To one of your conspirators, I assume?"

Harry's head tilted, his eyes squinting at her. "My conspirators?"

Fleur nodded her head. "I think I have the correct term in English, non?" She leaned against the strut of the tower's parapet. "You obviously could not have entered the tournament yourself; _I_ could not do that. There must be someone helping you, therefore."

"You still think I'm in the tournament willingly?" Harry asked her. "Did the whole, 'outfly a dragon' idea seem like the sort of thing someone who's clever enough to get themselves selected would do?"

Fleur raised her index finger, as if to still him. "But it worked, did it not?" she asked, rhetorically. "Of course, you play the fool to the rest of the world. The poor, cute little fourth year, outmatched by everyone, but I see through you, 'Arry Potter. All of your networking, your manipulations, I see that too for what it is. You bring these people together only so that their union will help you later. You steal support from the real champions and I will not stand for it."

"Networking?" Harry blurted. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you think taking in so many of my schoolmates would go unnoticed?" Fleur asked. So she was talking about Aimée, it seemed. "You are growing your fanbase. Giving them love so that they will in turn love you, twisting their feelings."

Harry found himself lost for words. He blinked at her, for that was all he could muster in response for several moments. He placed his palms together and held them in front of his mouth, in order to smoother the heavy sigh that he couldn't prevent from escaping him.

Harry himself was not a trusting person. He'd spent the last years of his life uncovering plot after plot, and yet even he thought her theory was far-fetched. They approached him, for goodness sake.

"Do you have any idea of how insane you sound?" Harry asked of her. "What have I done to deserve this, anyway?" He threw his hands in the air, the tips of his fingers almost brushing against the diagrams of the constellations that hung above. "Can you not handle the spotlight away from yourself for one moment, is that it?"

She mirrored him, her hands flying skyward, and her left hand hit Andromeda. "Me? I'm the glory hound?" She began to walk toward him, her voice climbing as she did. "You're the one that couldn't stand a year without being the talk of the school, and so every year you concoct these lies to remain famous. Two years ago, a basilisk, and last year the dementors and now this year it is this."

Through the fog of whatever on Earth was happening then, Harry had to begrudgingly respect her commitment to her research. She'd really left no stone unturned in arriving at her conclusion. It was quite funny, really.

He laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. "God, how I wish you were right," he told Fleur. "My life would've been so much less stressful if I had any control over what was going on." He leaned on the parapet, settling against it. "Look, you clearly have some stuff of your own you're going through, and I quite honestly don't care. You can be wrong and spin these theories and it really doesn't bother me." He held the letter in his aloft, pushing it forward so that Fleur could grab it. "This letter was actually for you. I was hoping to get your help on something."

She swiped the letter from his hands.

"I'm sure no matter what I say, you'll turn it around until I'm somehow making you a pawn in my plans to control the entire world, but whatever," he continued. "Read it and believe it, if you want. Or don't."

Harry wondered then why it seemed that everyone always assumed the worst of him; it seemed to be the unifying factor of his entire life. If it wasn't the Dursley's it was Snape, if it wasn't Aunt Marge it was Draco Malfoy. No matter how unlikely it was that he was to blame, he was always where the finger was first pointed.

As Aimée said, it was probably his face.

Fleur's eyes roved over his letter with unabashed intensity, pulling the parchment close to her face as she scanned the page as though it were a legal document. Her expression didn't change, her eyes unfailingly scrutinising.

Only when she was finished did Fleur shift at all.

"I still do not believe you," Fleur stated, her eyes still not lifted from the page. One of her arms folded across her stomach, with the other still clutching to his letter. "However, it seems that both of us have plans that compliment one-another, and so I will listen to what you have to say."

Harry took a moment to absorb her words. "Complimentary plans?" he asked, of the air more than of her. "So what, Madame Maxime is interested in Hagrid too?"

"Perhaps," Fleur offered. "But the heart is a fickle thing and I would not see my mentor with someone who does not deserve her."

"And I wouldn't see Hagrid with someone that doesn't deserve _him_ , either," Harry shot back.

Fleur took a step toward Harry. "Madame Maxime invented the Engorgement Charm!"

Harry took a step toward Fleur. "Hagrid invented Blast-Ended Skrewts!"

They stood stock still, only inches apart, neither willing to budge. They stared into one-another's eyes, searching for any failing, any weakness. Yet, neither found any.

"Let's do this, then," Harry said, first to speak and break the silence. "We'll get them together, they'll have the time of their bloody lives and then we never have to speak to one another ever again and I can go back to kicking your arse in the tournament."

"They're going to be _so_ happy together," Fleur gritted out, defiant in her agreement. "And they'll be all the happier watching me lift the trophy over your fallen body."

The door to the top of the Astronomy Tower groaned open then, revealing Professor Sinistra holding a telescope in one hand and a jug of coffee in the other.

She was a young woman, almost certainly the youngest of all the Professors at Hogwarts. She was quite fascinating to look at, with flawless dark skin and sharp cheekbones, light green eyes and long hair worn in a braid. She was an acolyte of Professor Dumbledore, too, though unfortunately only in dress sense, her robes as bright and garish and horribly-patterned as the Headmaster's were.

She let out a sigh at the pair of them.

"Merlin, isn't it a little early for your teenage hormones to destroy my workplace?" the Professor asked. Then, rather than pour herself a mug of coffee, she drank it straight from the pot. "Usually you lot wait until it's dark before you ruin my life."

"We're - I - i-it's not," Harry spluttered in denial, just as Fleur hurried to do the same.

She waved them away. "Yeah, yeah. 'Oh, we got lost' or 'it's not what it looks like'. I've heard it all before," Professor Sinistra said, with a shake of her head. "Get lost, will you?"

Fleur was quick to rush off and away from the grumpy Astronomer. "I will see you soon," she told Harry as she fled. "And your French is _awful_!"

Harry had never been so offended in his life. His French was _excellent_.

"Potter, a word," she called out, just as he turned to follow in Fleur's footsteps. He turned back, meeting her eyes. She raised her wand, silently summoning coffee from God-knows-where and into her pot.

"Is there something wrong, Professor?" he asked tentatively. "I know I've been a little distracted lately in class, but with what's happening in my life at the moment, I think that's understandable."

She seemed shocked by his words. "No, you're doing fine. Unless you want to become an astronomer, in which case you're screwed," she told him, bluntly. "I wanted to speak about something slightly more informal."

Harry nodded.

"There is a rumour circulating in the staff room that you're the school matchmaker."

Harry found that worrying. Surely his teachers, some of the foremost wizards in the country, had better things to talk about than teenage gossip.

"I haven't broken any school rules," Harry was quick to tell her. "Or laws."

"There's a first time for everything, it seems," Professor Sinistra commented idly. "I want your opinion, Potter, not to reprimand you."

"Go on," Harry said, for want of anything better to say. The Yule Ball had really made his life absurd as of late.

She stood then, beginning to set up the telescope she'd been holding absentmindedly. "If I were to ask Charity to the ball, what would you imagine the likelihood of her saying yes would be?"

"Charity?" Harry queried, before seeking to clarify. "Are you talking about Professor Burbage?"

"No, I obviously mean the vague _concept_ of charity, Potter," she muttered, her eyes transfixed as she shifted the dials along the length of her instrument's lens. "Of course I'm talking about Charity Burbage."

Harry sighed. "Well, I wouldn't really know. I can't say I've ever seen you two interact, and I don't really know that much about Professor Burbage," he told her. "Do you have any indication that she might like you?"

"Well, we have been seeing one-another for a few months," the Professor said. "But I'm still not sure that she likes me."

"After a few months, I would've thought that was a relatively safe bet."

"Still," added Professor Sinistra. "It just seems very sudden, doesn't it?" Beguilingly, she managed to continue fine-tuning the telescope whilst drinking her umpteenth coffee of that afternoon. "I mean, the Yule Ball is a big commitment, and I don't know if she's ready for that."

"Well, I'm sure if she's already going out with you, she's probably more than willing to go with you to a school dance," Harry said. "The worst that could happen is that she says no, and then you get to find someone who does see you for the great person you are. And, if she says no, you don't have to go to the Ball, which means you get a night in this tower without worrying about my fellow teenagers barging in and ruining it."

"You raise a good point, Mr Potter," she replied, at last lifting her eyes to meet his. "On second thoughts, I could just invite her here for the evening and show her the stars?"

"That does sound a lot more romantic than the ball, to be fair."

Professor Sinistra offered him a curt nod. "Thanks," she said. "You can forget about the homework over the holidays, if you want. One less paper to mark, anyway."

Harry left the tower quickly, his mind spinning. However, it most often settled on Fleur Delacour, and how on Earth he'd manage to get through the next few weeks without the two of them killing each other.

For Hagrid though, it was definitely worth it.


	3. French Kings, Groves and Dwellings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big Thanks to Lib for this one; if you know you know. Equally big thanks to Raph too, for being great and for the translations.

By virtue of Harry and Fleur being Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour, there did not exist a single place in the whole of the castle of Hogwarts where they would be free of the listening ears of other people. After their prior conversation, Harry had begun to see that fact as a gift, as it prevented any further meetings in the immediate future.

However, Fleur Delacour was nothing if not tenacious. And so, on the following weekend, the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas, when every one of his friends enjoyed themselves exploring the village and enjoying their freedom, Harry found himself walking around the Great Lake.

Fleur was there before he'd arrived, and he imagined she was likely to be there before he ever _thought_ of arriving, too. She appeared to be wearing every coat that she owned all at once, and yet Harry could see that she was still shivering, surrounded by Scotland's snows. There wasn't a great deal of reaction to his arrival save for a frown, though most of her face was obscured by a beanie hat and three scarves.

"Nice day, isn't it?" asked Harry, cordially, and he meant it too. He wasn't warm by any means, and he wouldn't be warm for another four months or so, but there were few things as beautiful as the wilds of Scotland under the blanket of winter.

She sighed and set about walking, already too cold to remain still for even as briefly as they had then. Harry rushed to match her step.

"What?" Harry asked further. "Are you not a fan of snow?"

Fleur glowered at him, not breaking her stride to do so. "Whether or not I like the weather is of no concern to you."

"What, I can't ask you about the weather without somehow manipulating you?" Harry asked, smiling as he watched her. She stared straight ahead, he assumed in a vain effort to pretend he didn't exist.

"It is…a gateway," she told him, her words holding great conviction. "If we exchange opinions on the weather now, later you will ask me what my favourite food is, and then what my hopes and dreams are and then, suddenly, you're charming me into doing your bidding. I know your game, monsieur."

"How charming do you think I am?" Harry asked, bemused. "Because quite honestly, if I could wrap you around my finger with your opinions on snow and your favourite food alone, I'd like to think my aims would be slightly higher. Like taking over the world."

Fleur sighed, the sound floating through the still air. "You are always so quick to play the fool," she said. "You are Dumbledore's prodigy, are you not?"

"What has that got to do with anything?" Harry asked, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"That man is the greatest politician this world has ever known," Fleur began, with a touch of awe colouring her voice. "He runs the IWC; every law passed is his and his alone." She stilled her stride to look at him. "You cannot tell me that he would not teach his apprentice how to follow in his footsteps."

"I _can_ tell you that," Harry said. "And I'm not an 'apprentice'. I hardly see the Headmaster."

"Yet everyone I speak to says that you and he are like Grandfather and grandson."

"And so you're just taking what they all say as the truth?" Harry asked, exhaling a heavy breath. "Because these people, who are neither me or the Headmaster, know us perfectly."

"So what is your relationship, then?" Fleur inquired.

"Why on Earth would I tell you?" Harry returned. "You wouldn't believe me no-matter what I say, and even if you did, you'd only manufacture some way of using it against me."

She sighed once more.

"It seems we are at an impasse, does it not?" Fleur asked, rhetorically. "Yet, I propose a solution." She reached beneath one of her coats to retrieve her wand. "It is a spell; the Veracity charm."

Harry nodded to her to continue.

"It is a truth spell, of sorts," Fleur explained. "It does not compel you to speak truths, but each time that you lie, a jolt of pain will spark through you."

"Let's do it," Harry agreed immediately. "One condition. We both cast the spell at each other, so I know whatever happens to me, happens to you too."

"That is the beauty of the spell, 'Arry Potter," she said in reply. "It was devised by the magical advisor of Louis VII, to be used by his full council. Each member would lay their hands in the centre of a table, in contact with each other, and when one lied, the others would feel their hand tense."

"And there's no way to get around it?" Harry asked.

"Looking for an escape, _canaille_?"

"Dream on," Harry shot back. "Just making sure you're not sneaking out of it yourself."

"What do I have to hide?" Fleur asked.

Harry folded his arms. "You're pointing the finger at me a lot," he remarked. "Makes you sound guilty."

Her lips quirked upward. "No escape, non. The body's reaction is involuntary," she said. She pulled off her glove with a wince as more of her was at once exposed to the elements. "Let's begin."

Harry extended his palm to meet hers. She laced her hand into his, their palms resting against one another.

Harry tilted his head at her.

"The spell will not work otherwise," she was quick to tell him, with a frown. Her hand was pleasantly warm in his; Harry did not dwell on it.

Fleur did not wait or ask if he was ready, and with a deliberate, semi-circular sweep of her wand, spoke. " _Verita Veru_."

Harry did not feel anything at first. Then, suddenly, a lance of electricity ran through him, shooting through his spine, just as did Fleur, too. Then for a brief moment, sparks shot from the pair of them, in a colour halfway between blue and green.

"It has worked," Fleur said, a hint of surprise in her words. "Now, tell a lie, and you shall feel the effects."

Harry looked directly into her eyes. "I'm Fleur Isabelle Delacour."

For one single instant, there was an explosion of pain along his arm; he felt like he was on fire, his hand clinging on to Fleur's involuntarily. Then, it left, just as quickly as it arrived.

The experience was unpleasant enough to stop him from ever _thinking_ of lying ever again.

"Your turn," Harry said, behind a gasp.

Fleur nodded, her eyes closing for a moment to collect herself, having watched her own spell-work act upon Harry. Then, her eyes flashed open, burning a hole into Harry's. "I'm Harry James Potter."

As Harry watched on, Fleur shook where she stood, her grip threatening to tear the skin of his hand. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, yet Harry knew that it felt as though it lasted too long by far.

"Nice to know that it's working," Harry said, watching as Fleur as she recovered.

"Oui," Fleur replied, too distracted to utter much more. "Let us begin to walk again. I'm cold."

Harry nodded, though she did not see it, and they walked with hands interlocked around the Great Lake, with snow piling at their feet. In the distance, the Christmas lights that adorned the castle walls twinkled brightly and he could see that the younger years had began to build snowmen with their bare hands, and some had forewent that to throw snowballs at one another.

Harry didn't dwell on it.

"I didn't put my name in the Goblet of Fire," Harry began, taking great delight in the absence of pain upon his body as he did so. Fleur drew breath to argue, though Harry spoke again before she could. "And, I didn't get anyone to do it for me. I also didn't orchestrate any situation in which I could be in any way held responsible for my name being called either, before you start."

Fleur's face seemed to paralyse in shock then, her eyes wide and her mouth parted. "That means-"

"-That I faced a dragon, and I never got a say in it," Harry interrupted. "That you were wrong."

"Oh, get over yourself," Fleur told him quickly. "You lived, did you not?"

Harry could not hold back his grin. "Did better than you, too."

"That is because the judges are idiots," Fleur was quick to tell him. "Do you have an idea of how difficult it is to charm a dragon?" She sniffed, though regretted it as soon as the cold air hit her nose. "Meanwhile, any fool on a broom could do what you did."

"Wanna bet?" Harry asked. "Because I'll summon my broom right now."

"I am not a fool, 'Arry."

He rolled his eyes. "The fact still remains that you were wrong."

"Are you expecting an apology?" Fleur asked. "Because it'll be a cold day in hell, or in this case Scotland, before you get one."

"Not expecting, specifically," he said. "But it wouldn't go amiss."

Fleur sighed, and in their brief interactions, it was a sound Harry had heard so often that he had began to associate the action of sighing to her and only her. She was rather good at it too, as she produced a sound that seemed to perfectly capture her utter exhaustion. A wonderful piece of practised ennui.

" _Fine_ ," she agreed finally. "I was wrong. Happy?"

Harry swayed his head from side to side. "Happier than I was ten minutes ago," he replied. "Does this mean that we can talk about the weather now?"

Fleur paused for a moment.

"Sure," she said then.

"So," Harry began again, with a grin. "Nice day, isn't it?"

" _Magnifique_ ," she replied sarcastically. "I do so love being cold."

"Being cold is temporary though," Harry said. "Because when all is said and done, you can go inside and get warm again."

In their walk, the pair had rounded the Great Lake, falling fully out of view of the Beauxbatons carriages and the Durmstrang ship. Harry had never before been where they were then or even knew that it existed.

Despite themselves, Harry and Fleur had managed to find their way into a grove hidden away from the world. The grove was not large, and so it held only a carved, wooden bench and little else. The bench, it seemed, held a charm of its own too, for even as all of the clearing and the trees that surrounded it were covered in snow, the bench remained entirely unblemished.

Without words, the pair entered into the grove and took a seat upon the bench, their shared curiosity rendered them speechless for a moment. In-front of their eyes, the lake stretched out endlessly, its expanse interrupted only by the mountains in the distance, and then only the horizon after that.

A slice of heaven, just for the two of them.

There was silence, for a cluster of moments, as they took in the sight of the world before them, their conversation forgotten. The world stilled for them, its only motion the gentle rocking of the water of the lake, its rhythm perfect.

"I suppose the day is nice, then," Fleur said, finding her voice after a moment; Harry found he enjoyed the sound, too.

"Am I allowed to know what your favourite food is now?" Harry asked lightly. "Or is that too far?"

Her lips quirked upward. "Whatever Papa bakes when I am home," Fleur said. "He and Maman own a _Patisserie-boulangerie_ in Nice."

There was a softness to her eyes as she spoke; her gentle gaze one Harry had not seen before upon her.

Fleur met his eyes, with that same, gentle gaze. Harry fought the urge to shiver. "I won't tell you of my hopes and dreams yet."

Harry grinned. "Why not?"

"Because I've given you too much already," Fleur was quick to tell him. "Especially when I know so little of you."

"Little?" Harry asked. "After our last conversation, I think you know more about me than I do."

Fleur's fair skin reddened, the elegant arc of her cheekbone turning pink. "I only know what everyone else does."

"I do as well though, don't I?" Harry asked. "Surely after seven years, almost everyone knows what your parents do for a living."

Fleur shook her head. "People do not know much about me."

A little part of him was warmed then, that despite everything, he'd been trusted with what he had. He wasn't quite sure why, but he was.

"So what would you like to know?" Harry inquired.

Fleur allowed silence to take the air for a moment. "Something that no-one else knows," she said. "And after that, what Dumbledore is to you."

"So two something's that no-one else knows," Harry remarked. "How is that fair?"

"Because you know two things about me, too."

"Your opinion on the weather hardly counts."

Fleur smiled then. She had one dimple, upon her right cheek, but not her left, and Harry found himself briefly transfixed. "You should probably have begun our conversation in a more interesting manner then if you wanted to learn something interesting about me."

"Fine," Harry replied, resisting the urge to huff about the unfairness of it all. "Dumbledore and I talk sometimes."

"You talk?" Fleur asked, leaning in toward Harry so that their knees almost touched. "What about?"

"Life, magic. That sort of thing." Harry replied. Fleur sighed. "If you wanted a better answer, you should've been more forthcoming with yours."

"Well then," Fleur replied. "If you insist on being vague, I have no choice but to assume you are every bit what they all say." A smile came to her lips for a moment, and Harry found himself delighting in watching her dimple return. "You are his apprentice and he has already taught you wandless magic, alchemy, and duelling."

"Is that really what people say?" Harry asked, unable to stop himself.

"That is only the beginning," Fleur told him. "According to your school, he has you poised to run the Wizengamot by twenty, and Minister by thirty."

Harry laughed loudly, the sound at odds with the peace of his surroundings. "If he's as great as you claim as he is, would he really leave all of it to me?"

"Still, you do not answer me directly," Fleur said, and Harry realised dimly that she was teasing him. "You could be Merlin once more, and simply talented enough to hide it." She tilted her head, so as to weigh her words. "Or he could be senile."

Harry wasn't entirely sure which one was less accurate.

"In the spirit of being friendly, I'll tell you this for free. No bargains needed," Harry began. Fleur, against her own consciousness, leaned in once more. "The last thing Dumbledore needs to do with his time is teach me how to play politician. He likes me, I think, though not enough to divulge his life's work in alchemy." He gave her a smirk. "And I'm good enough at duelling without needing him to teach me."

Fleur looked ready to contest his words, though chose not to. "So, I ask again, what do you talk about?"

"What do you talk with Madam Maxime about?" Harry asked, instead of answering.

"Charms mostly," Fleur told him quickly, though her face pinched as she did so, as though the very act of uttering truths ached. "She is the greatest reason I am as good as I am."

"And beyond that?"

Fleur paused. "Not much," she said, and Harry found himself impressed, as she towed the line of her charm brilliantly. "She is a driven woman."

"So, if you're having a problem," Harry postulated. "You wouldn't ask her opinion?"

"Of course," Fleur answered. "But I have known her for as long as I have known of magic; she is a family friend, not my country's leader."

Harry wondered briefly as to how the Minister would feel about such a title. "He is still a person though," Harry said. "And, if you think he isn't the sort of person who would help you like that, then you really don't know him."

"So you _are_ like family, then," Fleur announced triumphantly.

"I don't have a great deal of that, so I wouldn't know," Harry told her. "I don't really talk to him often enough for that, I think."

"But if something serious were to happen, it would be him you turn to," Fleur said, in statement rather than question.

"Like a basilisk roaming the school?" Harry prompted. "Sure." Fleur's eyes flitted down to his hand, still intertwined in hers, as if willing him to react to the lie he'd undoubtedly told. Yet, there was nothing. "You really thought I made that up?"

Fleur stared at him incredulously. "Obviously," she replied, and did so in French, rather than English. Her voice became so much more expressive as she did too; her exasperation like a painting, rather than a sketch. "Do you know how ridiculous your school is?" Her free hand stretched out, and she counted out. "You have had an evil teacher, a basilisk, a horde of dementors and an escaped convict in the space of three years, and it is you that has solved these problems. Not your headmaster, or champion Flitwick, but you?"

"That's about the gist of it, yeah," Harry agreed, seamlessly transitioning into French himself. The language felt strange upon his tongue, though pleasantly familiar. What was all the more pleasant though, for Harry, was the confusion on Fleur's face as he did so; evidently, she'd assumed he'd used a translation charm for his letter. "It was less interesting than it sounds."

"It sounds stupid, not interesting," Fleur said dismissively. "Do you know what would happen if Beauxbatons had a basilisk roaming its halls?" Harry shook his head. "No, and neither do I. Because it never happens."

Upon the waterfront, two swans appeared from the water, carrying their lunch. Harry found the sight odd, given swans were not native to this region of Scotland. One of Hagrid's ideas, no doubt.

"I bet that's pretty dull," Harry stated, bluntly. "So what, you just have lessons and actually learn things?"

"At our _school_?" Fleur clarified, beginning to near irate. "Yes, obviously."

"So, how often would you say your life's been in danger there?" Harry asked, finding himself curious.

"Never," she told him, and so irate was Fleur that she divulged it without issue. "Even as a veela, the palace bears an enchantment that nullifies my passive magicks, so I have never had an issue."

"Huh. Must be nice," Harry said, though he didn't truly believe it. Luckily, the charm found his statement non-committal enough so as to pass without issue. He offered his free arm to her. "Feel my forearm."

She offered him a strange look.

"Just, please," Harry started. "Just trust me. I promise it's not awful." His eyes flicked to his hand. "See, even the charm agrees with me."

Fleur's expression did not alter, though she did slowly place her hand upon his arm. And, even through her gloves and his coat, she could still feel the odd construction of his bones. They were harder than they ought to be; they felt like steel, even obscured by his clothes.

"My defence teacher in second year vanished all of my bones," Harry explained, wincing just slightly as her finger slid against his funny bone. "Skele-gro-ed my full arm."

Skele-gro was never intended for full bones, though, but rather to replace sections and strengthen what already existed.

"Doesn't that hurt a lot?" Fleur asked, her eyes searching his face.

"A bit," Harry told her. "I didn't enjoy it."

"Why did he vanish your bones?"

"I broke my arm playing Quidditch," Harry said. "He tried to fix it and, er, failed."

"What?" Fleur asked, though without clarity over what she was asking 'what' for. Yet, there did not seem a statement that summed her feelings better than that sole word. "How could a professor not know how to cast 'episkey'. It is the simplest healing charm there is."

"I never said he was a good Professor," Harry replied. Lockhart was the worst of all of them, and that list included the vessel of Voldemort. "Besides, I'm fine now, aren't I?"

"But you could not have been," Fleur argued.

"But I _am_ ," Harry said. He found himself confused too, as it almost sounded as though Fleur was worried. "Really, we have magic. You can't expect our lives to be normal."

"Of course I can," Fleur insisted. "The whole world is full enough of worries without our school being so too."

"The world isn't that full of worries," Harry told her. "I mean, after facing a basilisk, how bad can the rest of the world be?"

Laughter fell from her lips; Harry took delight in hearing it.

"So, that's why you chose such a stupid way to bypass the dragon then; a lack of fear," she said, with humour still lingering upon her, her mouth finding itself smiling as she uttered the words. "This is really all your world, isn't it?" Fleur's knee met his gently. "We're all just living in it."

For the first time, Harry took notice of just how closely they sat together. Their hands remained one-another, the long length of her shining hair resting against his shoulder. And, her hand still held on to his arm, her thumb absently passing over his coat.

The most peculiar aspect of it was that, even after taking notice of it all, Harry made no move to alter their arrangement either. And, as Harry lifted his gaze to meet her arrestingly blue eyes, and found her drawing the same conclusions that he himself did, Fleur did not move to change a thing, either.

"Seems I'm just living in it, too," Harry said, his eyes not leaving hers. "As I don't have a clue what's going on."

Fleur laughed again; the sound was tirelessly delightful. "You claim to be a lost soul, just as the rest of us are?" she pondered. "I do doubt that very much."

"Lost?" he asked, pondering it. "Maybe."

Harry thought then though, in that secret grove, with the view of the Gods before them, that he was the furthest thing from lost.

"I do doubt you're quite as lost as you claim, though," Harry whispered. "Perhaps this is all your world, instead."

Fleur released a soft gasp. "My world would not have you suffer as you have."

"And my world would not have you as isolated as you are."

Space grew between them in the wake of 'isolated'. "What do you mean, isolated?" Fleur asked, mostly in shock.

"Most people, after seven years, are known well enough so that their parent's jobs aren't a secret."

"And what would you know about most people?" Fleur asked, her back forcing itself against the bench. "You've been special all of your life."

"No I haven't," Harry asserted, his voice clear. "Before I got to Hogwarts, I was the furthest thing from special."

Fleur took a moment. "You're saying that you did not know of magic before you were eleven?" she asked eventually. "You're telling me that you did not know of our world until then?"

"You tell me," Harry said, his head tilting toward their joined hands, an inkling of irritation in his voice. Their closeness disappeared fully then, and so their hands were their only connection too. "Don't talk to me like you know about my life, especially when yours is as sheltered as it clearly is."

"Sheltered?" Fleur queried, the word sound altogether foreign to her voice.

"Safe. Without risk," Harry furthered, his jaw setting itself firmly. "This tournament is the biggest thing that's ever happened to you, isn't it?"

"Don't presume to know me," Fleur said. "You don't know anything of me."

"But it is, isn't it?"

"Not everyone is blessed with a life as interesting as yours," Fleur told Harry.

"But you could be Fleur, you could," Harry said earnestly, his gaze unerring. "The world has wonders in it; you need only look for them."

"Well then, _'Arry_ , what wonders am I missing out on here?" Fleur asked, her arm sweeping outward to encapsulate the fullness of the world that surrounded them.

"Exactly here," Harry said. "Would you have ever known of a place like this had today not have happened?"

"Would you?"

"Yes," Harry answered immediately. "I've seen almost everything else there is to see Hogwarts. Can you say the same of Beauxbatons?" He grinned at her. "Perhaps there is chaos at Beauxbatons, Fleur. Perhaps your school is just as mine is, except you never look to find out. You spend your hours memorising ancient charms and esoteric magic and the world passes you by."

Silence hung in the air then, and Harry knew immediately that he'd said far too much. His mind turned over itself, its only soundtrack the lake's surface sweeping from one direction to another, and the laboured breaths of Fleur beside him.

"You presume a lot," Fleur said, finally. "You've taken one detail of my life and spun it until you have decided to know my entire life story."

"I'm sorry," Harry said at once, and before his mind could think better of it, added. "In my defence, you didn't give me a great else to go on."

"I barely gave you what you gathered," Fleur replied idly. "And what if I gave you more, what then?" She pressed her lips together. "You would no doubt use that until I am suddenly a small-minded coward once more."

Harry heaved a heavy sigh. "Fleur, I'm sorry," he said. "I-I did not mean it in that way." He passed his hand through his hair. "I just wanted to say-"

"-I know what you wanted to say," interrupted Fleur. "You wanted to say how I am boring, and that you are so interesting, didn't you?"

"No, no I didn't mean that and you know it," Harry argued. A wind passed through the grove, and Fleur bristled in the cold. "You're obviously none of those things."

"But."

Harry sighed; his was not the masterpiece Fleur's was. "Nothing," he said, for even he did not know why he said what he did then. "I misspoke."

"No, you didn't," Fleur pressed, rising up from the bench in her fervour. "Go on. Say what you meant."

"Clearly I already have, otherwise I would be in agony right now."

"That is not how the charm works, and you know it."

"I did misspeak," Harry asserted, as his intention was very clearly not to invoke his current situation. "Look, can we just…try again?" Fleur offered him a questioning look. "Third time's the charm and all that."

A tense silence fell. Harry had no idea why he'd said what he had, though such confusion seemed to occur constantly in Fleur's company.

"Okay," Fleur said, her voice holding the very faint confusion that filled him.

"I'll not ask you about the weather this time," he said quickly, lightly. "Seems to set us off on the wrong foot."

Fleur's expression did not shift immediately, and for a moment Harry fretted that she'd grown beyond exhausted with him. Yet, just a moment after, she gave him a small, private sort of smile.

A smile as private as their grove.

"It is a dull way of beginning a conversation," Fleur added, in repetition. She stood up, the action bringing Harry up with her too. "Can this effort be conducted on our way back?"

Harry nodded in agreement. Lovely though it may be, the wind had shifted in the air, and what was once a bearable chill was suddenly not so. There was great beauty to see still, as there would be forever, but the pair sought after warmer air than the winter winds.

"Then you begin, instead," Harry said, simply. "Demonstrate the excellence you clearly possess that offers you the ability to criticise me so easily."

"I'm glad that you recognise my brilliance, at the very least," Fleur replied. She settled herself then, to begin anew. "How are you not cold?"

Harry looked down at his own clothing. He wore the only coat that he owned, and was without a scarf, it having disappeared in one of the Twins' many harebrained schemes. "And I thought my question was dull."

"The weather happens everyday," Fleur said. "To go unbothered by this cold is a marvel that I do not often see."

"I've just gotten used to it, I suppose."

"I do doubt anyone could grow used to this cold," Fleur insisted. "Your hands are hardly warmer than mine."

"I'm fine, I promise," Harry told her, though his voice came quietly. "We'll be inside soon anyway."

"Not soon enough," Fleur muttered. She flexed her hand within his. "May I?" before rushing to clarify. "I think we have both proven ourselves trustworthy."

Harry nodded and, ever-so-slowly, their touch left one-another. With each inch of skin that lost its connection, he could swear he felt the magic bleed from him, and her warmth bleed from him, too.

Harry missed it immediately.

Fleur's hands were quick to act, though. They passed over her top-most scarf, unwinding it from her neck and folding it in her arms. Its material was not thick, and it looked incredibly soft to touch, its colour the sort of light-blue that only the purest of summer skies held.

Or so he thought. As Harry met Fleur's eyes, he saw the colour once more.

She offered the scarf to him, with an outstretched arm. "Here," she said, her voice nearing dismissive. Yet, in a far quieter voice, she added. "It suits you, anyway."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, searching her eyes.

"Of course," Fleur said, her eyes drifting away from his and down to her still-outstretched hand. "I would not offer it otherwise."

Slowly, Harry reached out to take the scarf from her, his motion careful and even he did not know why. The tips of his fingers brushed against hers, and for a moment he could feel her touch once more, the sensation sparking a jolt of energy through him.

The scarf was silk, and softer than anything Harry had ever felt, though it did not feel half as wonderful as Fleur's hand did.

That energy did not leave him quickly, either. Instead, it seemed to settle entirely in his hands, making their every motion jittery. Coupled with the cold air settling upon his hands, he struggled greatly to wrap the scarf around him.

Fleur gave a cough, bringing him away from his apparently-arduous task. The very fact that she was there made Harry feel stupid, his cheeks tinting redder than even the icy morning could force through him. "May I?" she asked, softly.

Harry nodded, swallowing a breath. Fleur took the scarf from his open hands, and took a step toward him until only the barest slip of air separated them. Despite the day, Fleur felt entirely too close as she was then. She was utterly impossible to ignore; his eyes could not leave her if he wished to.

With quick motions, she folded the scarf and wrapped it around the back of Harry's neck, careful to not trap any of his messy hair beneath it. She threaded the silk into a perfect knot upon his chest, before her hands swept over the scarf for one final time, to smooth its creases. There was an odd, enthralling grace to the motion of her hands and the care of her action.

Harry's lungs felt tight, and so he forced his breathing quiet, near-overwhelmed by Fleur.

"Better?" Fleur asked, still so incredibly close. Her eyes were much too observant then, Harry thought. As she watched his face, Harry thought she could see him entirely.

"Much," Harry found himself able to gasp out.

For an instant, Fleur gave him a tiny smile. "Keep it," she said. "It _does_ suit you."

Harry began to walk once more, as his legs seemed to be the only part of his body that worked properly in that moment. His chest felt as though it would rumble out of him at any moment, his hands nervous and fretful, his mouth useless and falling over itself, his stomach bouncing around. And even then, as he set about the path he'd once walked before with total ease, his legs too began to abandon him, his feet stepping over themselves and his knees weakening with every stride.

Yet, in some distant part of his mind, he found himself agreeing with Fleur. Her question was far more interesting than his.

Fleur quickly regained her place beside him and the pair walked together, just as they had before, though this time in silence as neither held any particular willingness to speak. There was peace and serenity to the world that surrounded them too, the lake ever rhythmic and the snow and the sky everclear, yet Harry was the furthest from serene he'd been in as long as he could remember.

The path narrowed as they rounded the furthest side of the Great Lake until there was little room for anything except two people, their sides brought together by the arcs of nature. With each step, their forearms touched and the edges of their hands brushed together. Unfailingly, each touch brought forth electricity onto Harry's skin and jolting energy through his form.

After one such touch, Harry lifted his eyes to meet Fleur's. Only to find her doing the same.

She offered him a tiny, private smile as they locked eyes.

Harry found himself dwelling on it.

Or, he dwelled on it for as long as he was allowed to. In what felt like an instant, a noise broke their peace, and from the corner of his eye, Harry could see an assembly of four Hogwarts students, two boys and two girls. They were all older than he was, and none were in Gryffindor, so he did not recognise any of them.

They had, Harry noted, a glazed, distracted look upon their face as they stared at the pair of them. And, for a brief moment, Harry had a perfectly clear idea of what being a veela was like. The experience, he found, was not all too different from being him.

Beside him, Fleur's demeanour changed instantly. Her eyes were not as soft as they had been, her jaw glass-cuttingly-sharp and her arms folded across herself.

"Well?" she asked, in English, by then having gleaned that they were not her compatriots, addressing the most forward of the four. A boy with long, flowing hair that fell in waves and framed the sharp edges of his face. Despite the winter's lack of light, his face still held a tan that warmed his dark eyes.

"I'm here for him," the boy said, nodding his head toward Harry, the action bringing his hair to cascade along his cheek. Fleur breathed out a laugh, despite herself. "Wanna go to the ball?"

Harry shook his head. "No, unfortunately."

"Are you sure?" Fleur asked Harry, her voice light, her words returning to French.

Harry turned to offer her a withering look, his body finally returned to him as his life returned to normal, or this new normal he found himself in. Yet, even as his legs regained assuredness and his hands stilled, his stomach still felt alight with _something_. "Fairly sure," Harry replied, with a shrug.

In the interim, the boy who asked had disappeared away, already making tracks back toward the castle. Harry met the eyes of the next admirer, a tall girl who towered over the pair of them, though he found she stared at Fleur blankly.

"Wangabame?" she asked, the only indication that it was a question being the slightest of inflections in her voice.

Harry was treated then, as he got to watch Fleur offer the girl a withering glare, its power so apparent that the girl walked away without a single other word spoken. Her expression didn't change as she cast her eyes to the final two.

"Which one of us do you intend to ask?" Fleur asked them, her voice sound sharp to Harry's ears.

"Both," the pair answered in unison, managing to do so without even a glance at each other. Harry found himself absently impressed.

Fleur leaned toward him. "They really know how to make you feel special, don't they?" she asked rhetorically, her words in French once more and so her voice all the more expressive.

Harry smothered the laugh her words brought from him behind a hand, before looking to the other two.

"May I ask why?" he asked, returning to the familiar process he'd begun before. Harry could feel Fleur's eyes staring at the side of his face, curious, though he ignored her.

They flicked a glance at each-other. "You're both hot," the boy said. The girl nodded beside him.

"Is that the only reason?" Harry queried.

"Yeah," they once more announced in unison.

Harry sighed.

"Forgive them, _mon beau_ ," Fleur whispered, to Harry and Harry alone. "We are simply much too pretty."

Harry closed his eyes, his skin reddened by her words, despite how inconsequentially Fleur no doubt meant them. "Please, I'm trying to do some good here," he said, in French, before returning to his task. "So you're just looking for someone attractive?"

"What else is there?" the girl asked, peering up at him. The boy looked on too, equally guilelessly.

"Nothing, I suppose," Harry muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, do you find each-other attractive?"

They spared one-another the briefest of glances. "Yeah," they both said.

Harry threw his hands in the air, his head looking into the heavens too. "Then why not ask each other?"

"Good idea," they said, and then walked away without another word.

Harry heaved a sigh.

"My method is far simpler," Fleur said, beside him.

"My method is kinder, though," Harry said.

They started walking again, their destination the Beauxbatons carriages. It was not far, for it sat upon the edge of the Great Lake, though their pace was slow and so it did not grow near very quickly.

"So kindness is your cause?" Fleur asked, before humming. "Perhaps you have some merit. Who knows, perhaps one day those two vain fools could marry and you might find yourself invited."

Harry laughed. The sound brought Fleur to laugh too.

"So," Harry said. "Shall we try again?"

Fleur brought her hand to touch his scarf. "I thought we already had."

Harry's brain struggled to find words then.

"If you insist," she continued, despite her own words. "You never did tell me something that no-one else knows."

"I told you about Dumbledore and I."

"But we agreed on two things," Fleur corrected, her eyes warming as she heard him groan in dissatisfaction. "So tell me."

Harry thought for a moment, desperately willing the carriages to come closer so that he did not have to answer.

"How about how I learned French?" Harry offered.

Fleur shook her head immediately. "No, I already know that," she said. "A Québécois taught you, because you sound ridiculous."

Harry gasped as though he'd been hit by a bludger. "I do _not_!"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You sound like a farmer who has never even seen a city before," Fleur told him. "You sound like you're going to lecture me on how to rear sheep or herd cattle."

"We can't all be as cultured as you," Harry mumbled.

"You sound like you know what crop rotations are."

"I get it."

"You sound like you wake up every morning at six and drive a tractor to work."

" _I get it_."

Fleur giggled, like a child. "Because you sound like a farmer."

"Fine," Harry called out. "That's the secret you're getting. I was going to think of something profound, but not any more."

By then, they had arrived at her carriage. They were mostly deserted, too, with even the Beauxbatons students exploring Hogsmeade.

"Please?" Fleur asked, her voice brought sweet, her eyes wide as she looked at him.

"No," Harry said bluntly. "Now it's fair. We're both disappointed."

Harry was glad that he was no longer under the charm, as he would've no doubt felt it there.

"I suppose we need to see each other again then," Fleur replied. "So that I can finally hear the secret you owe me."

Harry grinned, forgetting himself. "Sure," he agreed. "If you insist."

Fleur glanced at her door, before she met Harry's eyes, her gaze as transfixing as ever. "I do," she whispered. "There's so many things you haven't told me."

"And there's even more you haven't told me," Harry replied, smiling still. "I recall hearing about hopes and dreams."

"Hopes maybe," Fleur gave, her hand resting on the doorknob. "Dreams may take a while yet."

"We have a while," Harry replied, his eyes watching the snow fall. "Goodbye Fleur."

To Harry's shock, Fleur reached out to him, to take his hand into hers for a moment.

"Goodbye 'Arry," she said, before letting go and turning to walk into the warmth of her carriage.

Harry ought to have been jealous, as he had a while to wait until he was warm again, but he wasn't. He was far too preoccupied on the electricity that Fleur's touch had left him. His stomach offered him no favours either, for it was entirely filled with butterflies.

It took until he was already back in his dorm before he realised they'd not once spoke of getting Hagrid and Maxime together. He found he didn't mind though, as it offered yet another chance to speak to Fleur again.

And _that_ made him smile stupidly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canaille - Villain (affectionate)  
> Mon Beau - My Handsome


	4. Monet and Allez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, massive thanks to the Flowerpot Discord for the inspiration. I urge you all to check them out.
> 
> Thank you to Michal for the beta-work, or Honorversefan. I urge you all to check out his writing as it's great. As ever, French translations and general emotional support from the excellent Raph.

Despite the inherent tension of such a place, with a millennium's worth of its students' accumulated anxiety ringing through the walls and Madam Pince breathing down their necks, Harry found himself feeling lighter as he entered the Hogwarts library. Such lightness was not even swayed by the frown he found Hermione wearing, either.

She was not in her usual place and he soon came to learn why, as when he looked over to their usual haunt, their table had been taken by a crowd of Ravenclaw students from the year above.

"You're smiling," Hermione said, with only half a moment spared to take him in before she returned to her work.

"No I'm not," Harry said, smiling.

Hermione huffed beneath her breath. "Yes you are," she asserted. "It's unsettling."

"My smile is unsettling?"

"Yes, it is," Hermione agreed. With the nib of her quill, she trailed along her essay, searching for errors that were quite clearly not there. "Your face isn't good at it."

Harry slunk into the chair across from her. "What is it with people and my face?"

"I have no idea what you're on about."

"Just something that Aimée said."

Hermione scratched away at a word; somehow, she'd managed to spell 'nomenclature' wrong. "Which one of your new, beautiful friends is Aimée again?" she asked, parsing a hand through her hair. "I just find it hard to keep track."

"You didn't seem to mind when Andrea was concerned," Harry replied idly. They held a soft-spot for one-another, Harry had come to learn, shared in science-fiction and awful music they both found fascinating.

"That's because Andrea is lovely," Hermione admitted easily. "And Andrea made an effort to make friends with the rest of the house, rather than solely taking your company."

"I'm sure I could say something clever about friendship being a two-way street, but I'm not clever so I won't," Harry said with a smile, amusing himself. He set about going through the motions of retrieving his own work from his bag, though found the act of retrieving his textbooks to be a minutes-long exercise. "I'm sure this would all be easier if you and Ron hadn't decided to hang me out to dry."

"Hearing diatribes on how excellent you are gets tiresome after a while," Hermione told him, entirely ignoring his truest point. "And I like for my lunch to be one of the few times in the day I'm not tortured with the Yule Ball." She did finally look at him properly. "Merlin, it's _all_ anyone talks about!"

Harry saw it fit to go without telling her that she was then only proving her own point.

"It's the only interesting thing happening at the moment," Harry replied instead.

Hermione recoiled slightly, her hair thrown backward as she did. "What's changed for it to go from awful to interesting?"

"Nothing," Harry replied quickly. "And I'm not saying it's interesting; I'm saying other people think it's interesting."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Something's changed," she stated. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Nothing's changed," Harry further insisted, before sighing. "Okay, so something may have changed."

Hermione pointed her quill at him. "I _knew_ it!" she said, in a hushed sort of yell. "Who is it then?"

"I never said it was a someone; just a something," Harry added. "I could've gotten permission to skip the ball entirely. Sirius could've been proven innocent. Malfoy could've spontaneously combusted. You don't know."

"I do know," Hermione further added. She took a hair-tie from her wrist and set about tying her hair into a ponytail. "If Sirius had been freed, I would have heard about it. If Malfoy had exploded, I would've definitely heard about it." She gave up on her attempt, snapping the elastic between her hands. "And, even if you didn't have to attend, you still would because there's a _someone_."

"You're not really demonstrating a lack of interest here, Hermione," Harry replied. "You seem very stuck on this idea, anyway. Is it because _you_ have a someone?"

"Absolutely not," Hermione dismissed. "Stop trying to squirm out of this."

"I'm not," Harry said, his hands up. "I'm just saying, it seems like you have a touch of the Yule Ball fever."

"You're going to have a touch of the 'I-Just-Got-Hexed fever' if you don't shut up," Hermione retorted. "So, who is it?"

"No-one," Harry argued, though even to his own ears his words were wearing thin. "I promise you, I don't have a date."

"But that isn't the same as not having a someone," Hermione countered. "So, is Harry Potter in-love at last?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Will Hermione Granger realise that not everything is her business?"

"So there is definitely a someone," Hermione said, barrelling on. "The only question is who?"

"You don't get to know," Harry told her. "You don't get to avoid the ball and still learn all the gossip. Can't have your cake and eat it too."

"So, it's someone there'd be gossip about, hmm?" Hermione pondered. Absently, she pushed away her work and rested her elbows upon the table, her head in her hands.

Thankfully, Harry was reprieved from any further questioning by the approach of a girl; one of the girls, Harry and Hermione both recognised immediately, who had taken their table from them. Such was the affront too, that it was only moments after that Harry realised it was Cho Chang that stood before them.

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione fold her arms and allow a frown to fall onto her face.

"Hi," Cho said, with a small, awkward wave. She attempted to smile at Hermione, though thought better of it and turned to address Harry and Harry alone. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," he replied. "What's up?"

She cast a worried glance at Hermione. "You're setting people up, right?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed tentatively.

"I tell you what, Cho," Hermione cut in, already beginning to stand. "If Harry pairs away your lonely soul, we get our table back."

" _Your_ table?" Cho asked.

"Our table," Hermione agreed. There was no denying it, either. On its underside, the words _'Property of HJP, HJG & RBW'_ were carved into the wood courtesy of Ron and a penknife he'd stolen from George in their second year; it was later confiscated by Percy, of course. "Deal?"

"Erm, okay?" Cho agreed, with a glance cast backwards to her friends, who sat staring at the scene with bated breath.

"How did you find out about my…thing, anyway?" Harry thought it necessary to ask. He didn't utter the word 'matchmaking', though he did think it.

"It's the only _other_ thing people are talking about," Hermione muttered, in-between compiling her parchments, her books already stuffed into her arms.

"Jay told me," Cho added helpfully.

"Jay?"

"You know," Cho said, stretching her arm far above her head. "Tall, long hair, tanned?" Oh, so Jay was his name, thought Harry. "He said so."

A reminder of the boy was, in turn, a gentle reminder of the day upon which meant him, which in turn brought Fleur upon the forefront of his mind and a smile at the forefront of his face. He fought against it, of course, as he could feel Hermione's eyes upon him and didn't wish for her to get any ideas.

"I fancy Cedric," she began and forgot the tension entirely the moment she spoke Diggory's name. "And I think he likes me too, but he hasn't asked me yet and I'm worried he might never do it."

Hermione rushed away from the table and their conversation, already forcefully taking back their table. Her absence allowed Harry the peace of thought necessary to realise just how odd his current circumstance was. Had it been last year, the thought of helping Cho date someone else would've been hellish. Yet it was then at worst a minor inconvenience.

"We know he hasn't asked anyone else yet," Harry said. If he had, it would've been the talk of the school. "So how do you know that he likes you?"

"Well, we've been pen-pals for years," Cho said. beginning to grin. "And he sends me flowers for my birthday; has done since I was twelve." Her eyes lost their focus. "He always remembers to send yellow dahlias, because they're my favourite."

He found himself very glad then that he'd forgotten his crush, for a multitude of reasons, though the most apparent then was that he wouldn't have stood a chance.

"I really don't think you need my help," Harry told her. Yet, Cho was so lost in her memories that she took a while for his words to register.

"Are you sure?" she asked, after a moment.

"Very," Harry replied. "People only really write letters for people they care about. And people only send flowers to people they _definitely_ care about."

Her hands passed along her braided hair. "If you see him, could you just ask about me?" Cho allowed her voice to ask, before rushing to add. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but could you?"

He nodded. "If I see him, it'll be the first thing I say," he told her.

Over her shoulder, Hermione had by-then fully commandeered their place, shooing away the last of Cho's friends, and sprawling her research across the table in familiar fashion. Cho then rushed to re-join them herself, with one last, polite smile and another awkward wave her parting gifts.

His intention in spending time in the library was to make some progress in solving the clue for the second task, and cautious of the fact that any free time spent with Hermione would result in yet more inquiry, he set about doing just that. In a rare spate of admittedly duress-induced productivity, in hours he studied the past tasks of the tournament, and even magical noises, though without any luck, his soundtrack the scratching of Hermione's quill and the distant tutting of Madam Pince.

"I never did get to understand why on Earth they ask you of all people about dating," Hermione said, breaking their concentrated peace. Though her words were as blunt as ever, there was a levity to her tone that had not existed before. She was a creature of habit, Harry knew. Most happy to return to that which she knew and there were few things she knew better than the table they sat on then. "It's not as if it's due to a wealth of experience."

"My exceeding emotional maturity of course," Harry told her, fighting against a yawn. "They look into my eyes and they know that I know what they need."

"I don't think I've ever liked you less than I do right now," Hermione replied idly, her words holding an odd fondness that only the deepest of friendships could cultivate.

Harry laughed. "Yeah, I don't know either," he did then reply. As with most things apparently, it was probably his face.

"They do realise that you've never even been on a date before, right?" Hermione continued to ask.

Harry shrugged at that, then attempted to fight the deluge of yawns again, though failed and stood up. "On the subject of dates; do you happen to know what's going on with Ron?" he yawned once more, stretching his arms above his head as he did so. "I can never get a straight answer out of him."

Hermione laughed at him. "I do know, yes."

"And?

"And I know," Hermione finished. "Oh, you wanted to find out?"

"That seems to be how questions work, yeah," Harry informed. "Last I checked, anyway."

Hermione gave him a smug smile. "Guess you'll just have to wait and find out, won't you?"

Harry heaved the weariest of weary sighs.

"I'm off for a walk."

"And you're still not going to tell me who your someone is?" Hermione asked, in one last attempt, though the smugness that her face held belied her expectations.

"No, and _definitely_ not now," Harry said, his hands winding his scarf around his neck. "If there is a someone, which I'm not saying there is, you can find out at the Yule B-" He stopped suddenly, meeting her smug smile with one of his own. "Oh wait, you can't."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Nice scarf."

Harry looked down, though he didn't need to in order to know exactly which one he wore; Fleur's scarf, of course. His skin darkened, his cheeks growing hot, and he left her without another word.

* * *

Try as he might, Harry truly could not think of much beyond Fleur after their time together. She was a pleasant thought too; one far brighter than any other he could find himself summoning. And, most oddly, it seemed that she appeared in his life far more than she had before.

In most weeks, she had existed on the edges of his awareness. Of course, it was difficult not to see the crowds that always flocked to her, yet he and her existed like two streams feeding into a greater river, connected and yet separate.

And yet, in mealtimes and in all of his free moments, she was there, either in front of his eyes or in the forefront of his thoughts. Under the light of the sun, she was the only thing he wished to see. She was the only thing in any room she was ever in, and Harry had never been more acutely aware of her.

His eyes drifted to her in moments of absentmindedness. His gaze did not linger, yet he so often wished them to.

"Are you alright?" Aimée asked, having watched his newest epiphany form before her. "You seem different."

"Different?" Harry asked, mostly as he found himself so distracted that he could only recall the last word that she spoke.

"You look happy," Aimée told him, unknowingly repeating Hermione's own words. "You wear it oddly."

"Am I not allowed to have a single emotion without being criticised?" Harry asked of her, though of the world mostly, his voice louder than it ought to have been and so calling forth the interest of others.

"Not critique; comment," Aimée amended. "You look ill-practised." She bowed her head slightly. "Perhaps that was a critique."

Harry chanced a look at Fleur, over Aimée's shoulder. Rather than her time-honoured tradition of glaring at her suitors until they left, today she ignored them entirely, eating without a single glance at any of them. "Maybe in time, I won't be."

"And what do you mean by that?" Aimée asked.

He gave yet one more look at Fleur; he found her doing the same.

"Nothing," he said. Despite the distance, Harry could see the slightest, tiniest quirk of her mouth upward. Then, before he forgot himself fully, he turned to look at Aimée once more. "Has Neville asked you to the Ball yet?"

Aimée brightened immeasurably. "He did, with flowers from his own garden," she said, her eyes travelling along the table toward the boy in question. Neville had even forewent bringing a book to his meal, instead chatting quietly with Andrea. "I had begun to think that I might have to ask him."

"Because you're so against that, of course," Harry commented, bemused.

"It is more romantic this way," Émilie told him, her voice soft, airy. "To be asked; to show your care. To show how much they want you."

Harry doubted that truly, though he found himself happy over the news. In the time since they'd first talked, Neville had begun to stand taller. He spoke more in classes, too, and had even found it within himself to glare furiously at Snape in lessons whenever the Professor attempted to bully him.

"So Justin did ask you then?" Harry asked.

Émilie nodded, sighing dreamily. "He composed a song for me, and played it on his piano," she said. Harry thought what was most striking of all, was that it was his piano. Not the school's, but his. "He said that his voice was not worthy of my ears, and so played music for me instead."

"That's quite the line," he said, quietly enough so that only Aimée could hear. She nodded, mute.

"And when he found out I played Quidditch, he bought me a broom!" She announced, her voice loud enough to carry to the Hufflepuff table and cause Justin to lift his nose into the air proudly.

"Is he richer than God?" Aimée asked Harry.

"Apparently so," he whispered.

Émilie was then lost to her reverie; a reverie only broken by the arrival of Justin himself, who led her away from the Gryffindor table and onto his own house's. Ernie McMillan, however, left the hall entirely, his stride quick as he sought to go anywhere but there.

Harry watched him go with a frown; his expression only broken by the sound of Aimée's voice.

"Do you still wish to know more about Madam Maxime?" she asked, her eyes drifting toward her departed friend. "Émilie mentioned that you were asking."

Harry shook his head. "No," he said quickly. "I think I've got it all covered."

"If you're sure," she added. "I do not think I would've been much help, I must admit. I don't think I've ever spoken to her."

Harry stopped in his tracks. "Aren't you taking Charms as a NEWT?" .

Aimée nodded. "Still," she said. "She lectures, and then Professor Toulalan teaches the practical lessons."

Fleur stood up then; Harry saw it from the corner of his eye, though it may as well have been the centre of his gaze for the focus it drew from him.

"What's she like as a teacher?" Harry asked, even his voice belying his distraction.

"She loves her subject, I think much more than she loves teaching," Aimée replied. "Beyond that, I'm still not sure."

As Fleur walked from the hall, she gave one last glance back to Harry. And, with the smallest of gestures, she crooked her finger toward herself, drawing Harry in.

And he followed.

"Thanks," Harry said, already standing, haste in his actions and his dessert still upon his plate, untouched.

"Of course," Aimée said, though by then he'd already turned away.

Perhaps he ought to have felt ridiculous, and yet he did not. He didn't feel a great deal of anything, with the exception of his startling desire to speak to Fleur once more. There was an utter blindness to his being then; blind to all but her.

And perhaps he ought not to have been so pleased to see her again, waiting for him, but he was. Inordinately so.

"Why did you come?" Fleur asked of him, her arms folded across her chest, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Why did you ask me to?"

"Because you still owe me secrets," she replied, and only then began to speak in French again. He'd missed being able to speak it too, despite it having only been a matter of a day or so since he'd last done so.

"Secret," Harry corrected, grinning in the way he'd not allowed himself to do so in front of any others. "And I didn't realise you were quite so fascinated with me that it was worth all of this."

"You mistake my desire for fairness as interest, _'Arry_ ," Fleur said, and there was just something in the way that she spoke his name then; like it was a secret in itself. Her voice sent fractals of lightning flying upward and downward upon his spine. " _Allez_."

Harry blinked. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Since you've been so slow in deciding what to give to me, I've decided for you," she said. "You claim to have had adventures, and to have seen everything there is to see." She paused. "Prove it. Take me on one of your adventures."

"But that's not the same thing as a secret," Harry said, though his mind had already begun to spin with the possibilities.

"Feel free to tell me a secret then, if you wish," Fleur said before her voice grew teasing. "If your life is not as adventurous as you claim."

Harry rushed in-front of her, and then turned, meeting her eyes and offering her his hand. " _Allez_."

And though her face remained as poised as ever, there was a wondrous surprise in her beautiful eyes, and she took his hand without hesitation.

"So where are we going?" she asked, trailing along beside him.

"It's an adventure, Fleur," Harry said. "You'll just have to trust me."

Hand-in-hand, they ran through the familiar halls and corridors of Harry's truest home. They passed statues and disused classrooms, paintings and dorms of days gone past. He had seen them all before, of course, and yet with Fleur by his side, they felt brand new all over again. All the better, too, that the paintings took great offence of their running in the halls and shouted at the two of them all along each and every floor that they spent together.

He and Fleur laughed together then, as they were rebuked by depictions of some of the greatest witches and wizards of British history for running in the corridors of all things. They laughed and ran together until they were breathless, and yet still laughed and ran breathlessly until they reached their destination.

Only then, as Fleur stood still, gasping for air with great difficulty as the laughs still came, did she gain awareness of where exactly they were.

"I've been here before," she said, airless. "This is the Headmaster's office."

Harry nodded. "Observant as ever, Fleur."

"It isn't an adventure if I've already been here."

"That's where you're wrong," Harry argued. He pointed to the office's door, as ever guarded by its gargoyle sentries. "I'm going to introduce you to the best game that Hogwarts has to offer."

She looked upon him speculatively. " _Allez_."

Harry grinned at her. "For as long as there's been a Headmaster's office, every student here has tried to break in," he began. "And your challenge made me think you might like to give it a go."

It was something of a Christmas tradition for Harry, in so much as he had tried to get in every year he'd spent at Hogwarts. He'd first attempted to get in under his invisibility cloak in his first after a Gryffindor seventh-year had mentioned the game to him and Ron. However, he soon came to realise that just because he could not be seen in getting in, that did not mean he could actually get in.

"I thought your adventures were more gallant than this," Fleur said, idly. "More saving the world and less minor larceny."

"The world only occasionally needs to be saved. So, in other times we have to make do with what we have," Harry replied. "Only here, we're not making do at all. This adventure even has the prize to prove it."

"And what might this prize be?"

"It might be anything," Harry said, letting go of her hand for all of a moment to inspect the walls that surrounded the Headmaster's office. Nonetheless, Fleur found herself following him along. "No-one's been able to do it for as long as Dumbledore's been Headmaster, but apparently any person that succeeds is given one of Dumbledore's inventions."

In one of their odd conversations, Dumbledore had remarked that the game was perhaps the single greatest test of Hogwarts' own defences. After all, nothing was quite as ingenious as the collective mischief of a school-full of teenagers.

"Only 'apparently'?" Fleur queried. "So this entire effort could all be for nothing?"

"You're really not the adventuring type, are you?" Harry asked, turning to look at her for a moment. "It's all about the journey, not the destination." He returned to his perusal, to turn the handle of the door so as to ensure that it was actually locked. Thankfully, it was. "A dance begins and ends at the same point, but when the music stops, you don't say you've achieved nothing, do you?"

Fleur took a step toward Harry; once more, it was all he could think about. "And are you the dancing type, 'Arry?"

Harry drew a sharp breath to settle himself. "Not sure yet," he said, allowing himself only a single look at her. "But I am the adventuring type, so let's get on with it."

Fleur, however, was not so stringent with her gaze, and so Harry could only feel her gaze upon him. "Of course," she said. "And when we do end up breaking into his office, and all that happens is you getting detention, you will still owe me your secret."

"Glad to see you're confident about us succeeding."

Fleur retrieved her wand. "How could I not be?" she asked. "I am me, you know him better than anyone else alive. The office does not stand a chance."

Harry was so excited by the prospect that he didn't correct her.

"Now, all we have to do is out-think the greatest wizard in the world," Harry said, lightly. "Obviously, none of the normal spells for opening doors or even breaking them will work. The stone is charmed resistant against all magic, and even if you did, somehow, manage to make it through, there's an alarm that sounds the moment an intruder passes the threshold."

"And we have to do all of this before we are no-doubt caught by Albus Dumbledore himself."

Harry smiled. "That won't be an issue," he said. "He always spends Monday afternoons in London, and then the evenings at his brother's pub recovering from his time in London."

Fleur shook her head, disbelieving. "I cannot believe you know all of this about Albus Dumbledore," she told him, saying the Headmaster's name as though it were a title or an accolade, rather than just a name. "So is this all your life is, then?" She muttered a charm that sent a yellow light along the wall beside the door, and frowned when nothing resulted. "Just jumping from one adventure to another, with tea-breaks with Dumbledore in the interim?"

"More falling than jumping," Harry commented absently. "Why are you so fascinated by the Headmaster, anyway?"

"I'm not," Fleur quickly denied.

"You've said his name so many times it's started not sounding like real words any more," Harry commented absently. "Albus Dumbledore, Albus Dumbledore, Albus Dumbledore. See?"

"It is a secret," Fleur said, quietly, though there was something strange about her voice as she said it; a shyness he'd not heard from her until then.

He stopped his efforts immediately. "It isn't one that I can gain for a secret of my own, is it?"

Fleur shook her head. "No."

Harry nodded. On a whim, he took her hand in his for a moment, his thumb brushing over knuckles.

"He's a huge fan of muggle art," Harry said, for equally whimsical reasons. "I once mentioned that I'd been to the National Gallery on a school trip and he spent an hour telling me about Monet and Impressionism." Harry let out a laugh. "Dumbledore spent a month with him about ninety years ago in Giverny."

Fleur did not speak for a moment; a moment that stretched long enough so that Harry found himself looking at her in slight worry.

"His taste suits his stature, then," she did say, after a moment's pause. "He knows that the only truly great art comes from France."

"He never said that."

"But he did not talk your ear off over Constable or Turner, did he?" Fleur asked, with a quiet sort of smile.

"I'm beginning to regret bringing it up," Harry replied. "I don't even know who Constable is. Or Turner."

"Yet you know who Monet is," Fleur said, with a sense of victory in her voice that made Harry roll his eyes. "And we are speaking French now, and not English, because it's a far nicer language."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Perhaps, it may not sound so wonderful when spoken by you, but it is," Fleur said. She returned her wand to its holster. "I do not think we will get to know of a way of getting through that door very soon."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, we're not making much progress here," he said, though he smiled as he did.

"And this is the only entry point?" Fleur asked.

"Other than the Floo, but that's restricted," Harry noted, before adding. Well, there's the-"

"Window," they both announced in unison; their harmony bringing them to meet each other's eyes.

They both rushed to speak, though Fleur got there first.

"It does open, doesn't it?" she asked, the wheels beginning to turn.

Harry nodded. "Fawkes likes to stretch his wings sometimes," he said. "But it only opens wide enough so that a phoenix could get in and the office is at the top of the castle, hidden away between two towers. So, even if I could fly us to the window, I'd never be able to get through it."

"Unless you got smaller," Fleur said, clicking her fingers.

They met eyes.

"Do you trust me?" Fleur asked.

Harry took her hand. "Definitely," he said. "Do you trust me?"

"Let's find out," she said, and they were off once more.

They were joined then too, in the castle, beyond their paired hands and the lightning that Fleur sparked through him. They were bonded in purpose, in those moments.

"Seeing as how we're definitely doing this, I'll tell you the secret now anyway, but only so you don't have anything to complain about afterwards," Harry said, though both of them knew from the moment that he said it that it wasn't true, that if the veracity charm was upon him he'd be struggling to stand. He glanced at his hand, as though waiting for the pain to come.

"That makes this whole affair pointless," Fleur said, and she too looked to their hands. She smiled suddenly. "So, secrets."

"Secret," Harry corrected. "I've been studying Ancient Runes."

"And how is that a secret?"

"Because I'm not taking the class for it," Harry explained. "About halfway through last year, I realised that I'd sorta messed up with taking Divination and wanted to change, but by then it was too late. But, I asked Professor Babbling if she would give me the tests everyone else took, provided I studied it in my free time, and she said yes."

"But why keep it a secret?" Fleur asked, giving a glance to him, as they meandered through the peculiar halls of the castle, in corridors where even the familiar felt lost. "Is that not something you wouldn't mind people knowing?"

"I wanted something for me," Harry said, easily though quietly. "Like you said, pretty much everyone knows my life story. Everyone knows that I like Quidditch, and that I'm good at defence and what happened with my parents and I just-" He stopped. "I just wanted something that could be mine and mine alone." He sighed. "Well, mine and yours now."

Fleur allowed silence to hold the air, sound absent save for their footfalls.

"Are you good at Runes?" she asked, her voice soft.

"I'm alright," he said, with a laugh. "Not great, not awful." He smiled. "It's a lot of fun though, learning another language."

"I never took the subject," Fleur told him. "There was never enough practical use to me."

"Do you not think warding is practical enough?"

"I have no desire to ward buildings for the rest of my life."

Harry looked over to her. "What do you intend to do?"

She gave him a smile that made his brain fog over for a moment. "Hopes and dreams, 'Arry," she said. "Not yet."

Despite how suddenly it came upon him, Harry had rarely wanted to know anything more. But he was patient, especially for things as important as this.

The moment they arrived outside, the cold air struck them fiercely.

" _Accio Firebolt_ ," Harry said, and then with a glance toward Fleur, added. " _Accio jumper_."

With the distance of travel required, for a moment there was nothing in the world except the two of them shivering. Until, suddenly, a bundle of wool hurtled toward them. Harry picked them out of the air, and flung them toward Fleur.

"It's for you," Harry muttered, his eyes still sweeping the sky to watch his broom come from his room, growing from a blot amongst the cloudy sky to a distinguished shape in a matter of moments. "Can't have you cold when you're casting spells at me."

"But won't you be cold?" Fleur asked.

"I've gotten used to it," Harry said again, his voice distant as his entire energy was focused upon watching his broom sweep toward him. He raised his hand into the air, just in time for the polished wood of his broom to meet his palm with a slap. "Besides, I need to be as small as possible to get through that window."

Harry looked to Fleur then. She had no hesitation in putting on his clothes, already bundling within his Gryffindor jumper.

She noticed his interest, her mouth lifting into a teasing smile. "How do I look?"

She looked better in his jumper than anyone he could've ever imagined. "Warmer," he said, though, his cheeks warming against the cold. "Ready?"

" _Allez_ ," she said, her hand gesturing to his broom. He mounted it immediately, the action familiar, seamless.

Time seemed to slow, then, as Harry felt more than saw Fleur sit behind him upon his broom, her arms slowly, carefully, winding themselves around his waist, her hands gripping fistfuls of his t-shirt. He was enveloped by her, then. He could feel her breath against his neck, her nose brushing against his hair and he could scarcely contain his own lungs from bursting out of his chest.

His nerves had never been so frayed upon a broom before. Not when he was being chased by a dragon, not in any Quidditch game, not even as his old broom attempted to kill him. Not ever.

"Are we going to stay standing still forever?" Fleur asked, her lips beside his ear. "Or do you intend for us to fly?"

Harry grinned, though Fleur could not see it. He pulled up on the Firebolt and they were away, soaring through the sky, their only companions the clouds that floated above, the snow that fell down below and the birds flying beside them.

Their purpose decided that their flight would be direct, though Fleur's gasps as he brought them higher and higher told Harry that the next time they flew together, he would show her all that was possible. Her cries of wonder as they slalomed through the towers and soared above the highest rooms in the castle only proved his point.

Harry stopped them perfectly, the moment they were in front of the window, the perfection of his broom altering their moment instantaneously.

"How was that?" Harry asked, to a gasping Fleur.

She pulled her out her wand once more. "Passable," she told him, before pointing her wand at the small window. " _Alohomora_."

To their shared surprise, the window cranked open with resistance. It was tiny, of course, wide enough to fit Fawkes' chest and little more, but it opened all the same.

"Is that not a security risk?" Harry found himself asking. They sat perfectly still in the air, without him ever needing to spare a single thought to their stability; the Firebolt was just that good.

"If an intruder is capable of bypassing Dumbledore's defences, this window is the least of your worries," Fleur told him. "Now, all we must do now is get you inside, and ensure that in doing so we do not set off the alarm you mentioned."

"The alarm is only triggered by the door," Harry informed her. "That way, Dumbledore and the staff don't get alerted any time somebody comes through the fireplace, seeing as how the only way they'd be allowed to get in was if they were invited anyway."

Fleur nodded. "Now comes the hard part," she said. "Human reduction is supposed to be tricky, but I am quite good, I assure you."

Yet despite her words, she released her fierce hold of his waist to wring out her hands, her wand appearing clumsy under her control.

"Do you want to talk me through the process?" Harry asked, turning to watch her. "Just so I know what I'm getting into."

Fleur nodded, drawing a deliberate breath. "Well, normal reduction is a simple charm. You cast the spell, and the magic makes the object smaller. Simple, without a great need for willpower or creativity," she began, her eyes closing for a moment in recollection. "However, a person is animate, obviously, and so if I'm to do this properly, I must take into account your internal energies as I cast the spell."

"And how do you do that?" Harry prompted.

"By altering the wand motion," she said, in a settling voice. "So that not only is your mass and volume reduced but your energies too so that you don't-" She paused, meeting his eyes. "Explode."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Explode?"

Fleur nodded. "It is unlikely though," she rushed to add. "According to spell-crafting theory, it is as unlikely as a levitating charm suddenly causing an explosion."

Harry's mind was cast back to his first ever Charms lesson, where exactly that happened no less than five times in an hour. "And you're confident?"

"Of course," Fleur insisted.

Harry grinned brightly. "Then this sounds fun," he said. "Whenever you're ready."

Fleur drew a deep breath, and Harry could feel her tense as she focused.

" _Reducio_ ," Fleur incanted, and Harry was met with the familiar feeling of magic covering him once more. Then, he watched his hand shrink as they held onto his broom, and then his arms, and then his legs until he appeared half one third the height he'd been only moments before.

Yet still, as he held onto the broom, his strength did not feel as though it had diminished. His legs still appeared to fit the upper half of his body, and his head did not feel any heavier upon his shoulders.

Fleur sighed, relieved. "I can't believe that worked," she said, shocking herself with her honesty. "You're so little."

His mind was cast back momentarily, to the first time she'd described him so. "Again, excellent observation," he returned. With his new size, he found himself capable of spinning on the broom so that they could face one another, though even with both of them sat down he still had to look up steeply to meet her eyes.

"You're cute."

Harry's face grew as red as the jumper she'd borrowed from him. "Come on, then," he mumbled. "Let's get on with it."

He lifted himself off of the broom, and tentatively took hold of the open window. At first glance, the window looked delicate, formed of stained glass, and yet the moment Harry touched it, he knew it could withhold any force he'd be able to muster.

He cast one more glance to Fleur. "Don't break my Firebolt when I'm gone," he said, before leaping through the window and meeting the floor of the Headmaster's office with a dull thud.

Harry had imagined the impact would hurt less than usual given he weighed less, but it still hurt just as much as it always did. The pain, however, was soon overwhelmed by the utter triumph that filled him.

The office was cast in a warmer glow to his eyes, its familiar contents brilliant once more. He felt as though he was there for the first time, all over again.

Yet, conscious of the fact that the eccentric Headmaster could arrive at any moment, routine be-damned, Harry rushed to take a piece of the Headmaster's free parchment, stealing a quill from the drawer that he knew that Dumbledore kept them in. He inscribed a short message:

_Nous étions là_

_Amitiés,_

_Harry Potter et Fleur Delacour_

Harry found himself grinning as he placed it upon the Headmaster's desk, and grinning yet more stupidly as he climbed out of the window once more to see Fleur on his broom once more.

"You're still alive," Fleur remarked upon seeing him again, though her eyes were drawn to his smiling mouth. "I take it that you were not caught."

"Clearly," Harry replied. "I can't believe we did it."

"It seems rather trivial, I must admit," Fleur replied, carefully pushing herself back along the broom so that Harry could return to it comfortably. "I cannot believe no-one managed to do it before us."

"We're quite a good team, you know," Harry said, looking over his shoulder. They shared a smile.

"I assume most are not foolish enough to allow themselves to be shrunk," Fleur teased, nudging him in the side with her wand. "Are you finished being miniature?"

"Definitely."

Fleur nodded. "Luckily, the engorgement charm is my speciality, so you'll have no worries here," she said before her voice grew playful. "I must admit I'll miss you being pocket-sized, but alas." Fleur trained her wand on him. " _Engorgio_."

And, with absolute precision, Harry was returned to his own form once more. His hands, as they always had been, his legs as long as they always were. The return to his original mass forced Fleur to hold onto him tighter, though, which he did not mind in the least.

For her teasing, Harry took them the long way around on their way back to the ground, flying through air as quickly as his Firebolt allowed the pair of them to go, taking delight in the shocked shrieks she let out as she hung on for dear life, in how she held her breath as he directed the broom toward the ground only to pull up at the last moment. How, upon reaching the ground, she nearly fell over herself to get off his broom as quickly as possible, casting him a sharp glare.

"That was not funny," she asserted, watching him laugh at her misfortune.

"Seemed pretty funny," Harry replied, still smiling. He placed his broom beneath underneath his arm, and set about walking inside again, the cold growing too great to ignore. Though she grumbled, Fleur followed him along too. "It's like you've never flown before."

"I haven't flown with someone as stupid as you," Fleur returned. "If you'd been a second later when you pulled up, who knows what could have happened."

"If you'd been even slightly wrong with your wand motions, I would've turned into a bomb," Harry said, before offering her a warm smile. "But I trust you."

"Then I suppose it's only fair that I trust you too," Fleur told him. "If only in adventures."

In time, Harry hoped that might extend elsewhere.

"So you don't suppose that I could tempt you into another flight anytime soon?" Harry asked.

She shook her head. "I would have to be running for my life, and only then barely," she told him, bluntly.

"With how my life usually goes, that might very well be the next time we speak."

Fleur drew breath to respond, but before she could they became aware of, oddly enough, Cedric Diggory. Harry had made a habit of meeting the older boy at some of the worst moments of his recent history; Halloween, the world cup, the dementor attacks. He half-expected the Hufflepuff to come with a letter saying he'd been expelled.

"Cho," Harry said, upon clapping eyes upon the other Hogwarts champion, the word spoken as though it were an epiphany.

Cedric looked at him with wide eyes. "How did you know?"

"What?" Fleur asked, her eyes switching between the pair of them. "Are you talking in code?"

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, not at all," he rushed to say to Fleur, before turning toward Cedric. "Just ask her."

"Are you sure?" Cedric asked, a shyness about him that contradicted the image people so often placed on him.

"Definitely," Harry said at once. "She wants you to ask."

Cedric nodded in reaction to Harry's words, though mostly to himself. "If you're sure," he added, fairly unnecessarily.

Harry nodded his head toward the nearest door. "Go, before she gets worried that you never will and accepts someone else's offer."

Cedric took off immediately, at a pace halfway between a walk and a sprint. "Thank you!" he called out, over his shoulder.

Fleur came to stand beside Harry, the edges of their knuckles touching as she did. Despite them having returned to warmth, she still wore his jumper; the thought warmed him.

"His date," Harry filled in. "Or who's about to be his date, anyway."

Her hands played with a loose thread of wool absently. "And have you given that any thought?" she asked, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Secrets," was Harry's only response. "And you?"

"Secrets," Fleur replied quickly. "It would be foolish to think of that when we have not helped my Headmistress and your Groundskeeper."

Harry clicked his fingers. "I knew we've been forgetting something," he said. "I suppose other things got in the way."

Fleur looked to the door; the door Cedric had flown out of in his haste. "I think we've done enough for one day, though," she said. "And we have a while yet."

"That we do, Fleur," Harry agreed. Yet, upon the sound of her name, her eyes snapped to his and she offered him a look that made him want to ask her to stay.

Before he knew it had happened, she took his hand in hers. "Do tell me what Dumbledore has given us when he decides," she said. Her thumb brushed over his. "I wouldn't want today to have been for nothing."

She looked down to the jumper that she wore; his jumper. But before she could offer to return it, Harry spoke. "Keep it, if you want," he said easily, before adding, in a knowing voice. "It suits you, anyway."

Fleur thought for a moment. "I think I will then," she told him. "Perhaps it is just my imagination, but wearing it has been the warmest I've felt in months."

She gave his hand one more squeeze, before letting go. Harry missed her the moment she left his touch.

They waved goodbyes, and Harry trailed his way toward the Gryffindor tower, with satisfaction in his heart, and the thought of Fleur wearing his jumper warming him all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nous étions lá = We were here
> 
> Amitiés = Regards
> 
> Allez = Come on/Go on (Should be noted that this is perhaps not entirely accurate, and probably too formal for the context. However, as an author I made the stylistic choice otherwise as I prefer the sound of Allez to vas-y)


	5. The Gift

As the month of December turned a corner, and the Yule Ball truly set itself upon the castle's collective horizon, Harry found his free time had begun to be eaten away. He could not go a single moment at lunch or dinner without being accosted;, and in their desperation, his suitor's pleas had turned into a form far less welcoming than before.

Most, by then, did not even ask him out, but rather demanded that he take them, and upon his refusal, demand to be set up with someone else. The experience had become so unpleasant, in fact, that Aimée and Émile had even stopped sitting near him, though given that they soon found a home by the side of both Neville and Justin, Harry could not solely place the blame there.

Hence, when the time came for Hermione to get on the Hogwarts Express and return to her family, Harry rushed to forego a meal entirely to walk her there. He even found himself carrying her rucksack of what felt like every spellbook ever to do so, the bag's mass so great that he could feel the phantom pains of his tournament injuries returning as he carried it.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you to stay?" Harry asked, in-between wheezing breaths. He and Hermione had by then reached the Herbology greenhouses, and yet still the short distance between there and the self-pulling carriages to Hogsmeade seemed to stretch into eternity. At the nearest window, The head of Professor Sprout popped into view, and she gave a quick wave, which Harry struggled painfully to return. "I will buy you literally any book you want if we stop walking right now."

"Any book?" Hermione asked, her finger upon her chin.

Harry nodded, and with the additional weight upon his back while doing so he very nearly flung himself to the floor. "Any book."

Hermione thought for a moment, and then rolled her eyes. "Harry, it's not that heavy. Stop being ridiculous," she told him. "If you're really so overburdened, feel free to turn back; I'm sure everyone else would be happy to have you."

Harry sighed. "Okay, I'm sorry," he said. For a brief moment, he thought to raise his hands in surrender, though quickly learned that was neither feasible nor possible. "I'll be a silent pack mule; anything to get me away from that."

"You've finally come to your senses?" Hermione asked. "I must admit, I'd initially thought it wouldn't have taken this long to happen, but I'm heartened to hear you've realised in the end."

Harry smiled. "Why don't you support love, Hermione?"

"Well, Harry, the last thing your work is putting into the world is love," Hermione said. "Most of the people you set up won't last a fortnight together."

"What about Neville though?" Harry asked. "He's like a new person already, and he'd never have spoken a word to Aimée without it all. Even if everyone else fails, just that is worth it."

He truly had changed, too. His Grandmother had written him a letter some days ago, demanding to know who his date was and to know if she was 'worthy' of the Longbottom name. The letter was opened, yet found its home in the bin of their dorm, entirely unresponded to.

"I think they'd manage to find each-other without you, somehow," Hermione replied, dryly. "Surely you understand that there are better uses of your time than throwing teenagers together like barbie dolls?"

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know," she began. "How about the fact that you're in a deadly tournament, you have no idea what you're facing, and the next task is _less_ than three months away?"

"'Less than three months' isn't quite the strict deadline you want it to be," Harry replied, mildly. "And when have I ever planned anything I've ever done?" The ground began to rise, as they began to climb up the hill toward the carriages. "I'm pretty sure actually preparing would make me do worse."

"You don't know that because you've never planned anything to prove it," Hermione told him. She took a look at him, and then to the ascending hill, and stopped walking. Harry immediately followed suit, near-crying in relief as he did. "Harry, I care about you so much. You're like my brother, and I just want to not have to worry about your safety for one year."

"I don't think we're ever going to stop worrying about each other," Harry replied. "You worry that I've let a nundu into the school and I worry that you aren't getting enough sleep or that you haven't seen the sun in weeks. That's how we work."

"My diligent studying won't kill me," Hermione insisted.

"And my fun won't kill me either," Harry insisted. He took a moment, to let the air settle. He sighed, then. "I promise, for you, that I'll try to start thinking before I act at least some of the time, and I really will try my hardest to solve the clue while you're away."

Hermione scuffed the ground with her shoe, throwing snow to one side as she did. "Are you sure I can't get you to try to have a normal life, at least some of the time?"

Harry grinned down at her. "You really want me to have a normal life?"

Hermione frowned at him, though her heart wasn't in it. "My nerves would," she muttered. "I don't need to have nightmares that you've run off to tame lions but I still get them."

"Only lions?" Harry queried. "Seems a little mundane for me, don't you think?"

Hermione ignored him entirely and so Harry returned to his life as a beast of burden. The weight did not feel quite so great then though, despite the hill they trekked.

"You're like a sister to me too, you know," Harry said, breaking the peace. "An annoying little sister."

She glared at him. "I'm clearly the older sibling."

"Under what grounds?"

"The grounds of actually being older than you," Hermione said. "And I'm responsible, I'm thoughtful, and I'm far more mature than you."

"How do you think you're the more mature one?" Harry asked. "Last week, you wouldn't let me borrow a quill because it was your 'favourite' spare quill."

"Mature people aren't allowed to have favourite things?" Hermione pressured.

"Not spare quills, they aren't."

"Well then, Harry," Hermione began, with a voice Harry knew to recognise as the harbinger of an argument. "What grounds do you have to be the older sibling?"

"I'm taller, for one," Harry said. "And I'm actually the mature one."

Hermione was moments away from saying 'are not, are too' ad infinitum, though managed to hold her tongue. "Why don't we do the _mature_ thing, and agree that we're twins?"

Harry smiled. "Perfect."

"Of course, even with twins, there's always one born first…" she trailed off.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"But I'll be mature and move on," Hermione rushed to add. "You know, there's a new rumour going around the school, about Cedric and Cho."

"That they're going to the Yule Ball?" Harry asked, before adding. "I know, I set them up."

"Yet another example of a couple that really didn't need your help," Hermione muttered.

"Really, are you sure you don't want to stay?" Harry asked her, teasing. "I'm getting mixed messages is all."

"The point I wished to raise wasn't about them," Hermione continued, ignoring him. "It was actually the story of how exactly they got together." They'd reached the carriages then, and Harry gained a second wind to rush to the nearest one and deposit her belongings there. "He was so excited when she said yes that he was loudly overheard telling everyone exactly who gave him that final push toward his beloved."

Harry smiled. "And?"

"And he mentioned that when he saw you, you and Fleur Delacour were walking the corridors together."

Cedric, it seemed, had a big mouth. Harry sighed. "And?"

"Well, Harry," Hermione prepared. "There's a few conclusions I could draw from it." She raised her index finger. "One, you and Fleur have become great friends, which is unlikely as I've never seen her so spend a second with you." She raised her middle finger then too. "Two, you're secretly working together on the second task, which is both illegal and unlikely, as you said yourself that you've never willingly prepared for anything in your life." She raised her ring finger. "Or, the third, and most likely option, is that given the correlation between you _definitely_ having a crush and you suddenly appearing by the side of the prettiest girl anyone has ever seen, is that _she_ is your someone."

"You're just discounting the possibility that we ran into each-other at the same moment I ran into Cedric?" Harry asked, in defence.

"That was my initial idea too," Hermione allowed. "However, I came upon another factor yesterday that really tipped the balance." Hermione grinned at him then. The very same grin she wore whenever she found that she'd gotten the best marks on a test. "I saw Fleur in the library wearing a Gryffindor jumper."

Before he could help himself, Harry was smiling. "That doesn't prove anything," he said, though the argument lost strength as the smile remained. "She could just like the pattern, or she could be thinking about coming here for her last year of NEWTs and wanted to see how she'd look in our house's colours."

"It was your jumper."

"You can't prove that."

She sat down upon the carriage and Harry followed her in doing so. "It had two holes in its sleeves, like ones that you cut into yours so that you could poke your thumbs through," she told him. "Only you have a jumper like that."

And, unfortunately, she had a point.

Whenever a student altered or damaged their uniform, Professor McGonagall would force said student to repair it before letting them leave her sight. However, in the case of his jumper, his magic had apparently proved as stubborn as he himself was, and so decided that the cutting charm was to be irreversible, whether it be himself or Professor McGonagall that attempted to fix it. She had asked the Headmaster, in irritation, to correct his impropriety, though he suddenly found himself too unwell to perform such arduous magic.

"So," Hermione broached, just as the carriage began to set off. "You and Fleur?"

"What about us?"

Hermione smiled. "There's an 'us'?"

"No," Harry said. "Not an us."

"Yet."

"I don't know."

Hermione was silent, for all of a moment. "Do you want there to be?" she asked, softly.

"Of course," Harry said, the words flowing as easily as the air that contained them. "I just don't know if she does too."

"Harry," Hermione said, her voice deliberate enough to draw Harry's focus to her. "People don't wear clothes belonging to people they don't like; surely you, _master_ matchmaker that you are, realise that."

"Most people don't, you're right," Harry said. "But Fleur is _not_ most people. She's not like any kind of person I've ever met before, she's…"

"…Special?" Hermione finished. Harry nodded.

"She's… _Fleur_ ," he said, with a note in his voice as though it answered every question anyone could possibly pose. And, in a way, it did.

How on Earth people functioned with thoughts like this, Harry had no idea.

"I think it might be a good time to take some of your own advice," Hermione said. "Just ask her. The worst that she can say is no."

Harry doubted that greatly. Fleur was definitely capable of saying things _far_ worse than no.

Hogsmeade began to grow in Harry's vision, and though its nearing arrival did not slow Hermione.

"Just think about it, Harry," she said, before she smiled at him. "Imagine how much easier your life will be if she says yes; everyone will stop asking you out and you can go back to enjoying your free time."

"I really don't think me being with someone would stop most of them," Harry commented. "It doesn't matter about them, though. I'm not afraid of what other people think and my goal in life isn't to just appease the rest of the world.

Hermione groaned, hiding the noise in her hands. "So what are you afraid of?"

He gave her an abashed smile "That I don't deserve her," he said. "That she'll come to her senses and realise that there's far better ways to spend her time than with me."

"Do you think that's likely?" Hermione asked, incredulous.

"Yeah," Harry admitted quickly. "I'm only me."

"I promise there is nothing 'only' about you," Hermione rushed to respond. "Harry, I might only say this once, but I'm always going to mean it." Her eyes closed for a moment. "You are the most special person I've ever met, even in the magical world. The question isn't whether you deserve her; it's never that. It's if she deserves you."

"What?"

"You have hundreds of people asking you out and rather than leverage that for yourself, you help them find other people. You're left a family fortune, but rather than bragging about it, you use it to buy books for me and quidditch gear for Ron. You know the world shouldn't be yours to save yet you do it anyway," Hermione explained, the words coming at such a rush that they came out as one breath. "I don't know Fleur at all, but she needs to be pretty special to ever be your someone."

Harry sighed, her words washing over him. "I just don't know," he said. "I feel so…overwhelmed when I'm with her or whenever I even think about her." He sighed again. "It's like she's the only thought my brain wants to have and I can't matter as much as that to her. I just can't."

They'd reached the train-station by then, the air filled with the scent of snow and coal smoke.

"If she's good enough for you, you'll be all that to her and more," Hermione told him, her eyes looking toward the platform. They left the carriage, Harry hauling her bag again until they reached the nearest compartment door and he dropped it carefully to the ground, softly enough to avoid a thud.

She gave him one final, significant look before launching herself into a hug, which he returned quickly.

"Good luck, Harry," Hermione said to him, against the cold cotton of his coat.

"Say hello to your parents for me," he said in turn. Hermione nodded, offering him a quiet smile, before attempting to lift the very bag he'd brought. She gave one great heave of it only for it to not budge an inch, then with a sigh brought out her wand and levitated it into the train and disappeared along with it.

Harry wanted to weep.

Her head popped around the door after a moment. "By the way, Dumbledore was asking after you. He said to go to his office this evening."

His eyes went wide. "And you didn't think to mention it sooner?"

"Other things got in the way," Hermione defended. "You two talk all the time, anyway. I hardly thought it was that pressing." She folded her arms. "Why is it so pressing, Harry?"

"Nope, not after it took you so long to tell me about it in the first place," Harry told her. "Goodbye Hermione."

"Goodbye," she said, curtly, before stepping on to the train. Her voice grew cheerier immediately afterwards. "Write to me when you get my present!"

"You too!" Harry called back. He watched her make her way through the train and find herself a compartment, and only then did he turn away.

Harry did not immediately return to the castle though, but instead chose to make the most of the fact he was in Hogsmeade, away from the other students and able, if not permitted, to make use of the village he'd come to love. It really was a lovely place to be in winter, after all.

* * *

The wait to that evening was agonising, and made no better by the persistent interjections of Harry's fellow students. He had hoped, ridiculously, that they would serve to break the day up and work through the hours more easily, yet all they truly served to do was place yet more and more barriers between himself and receiving he and Fleur's accolade.

Yet still, as was always the case with time, eventually the moment came. And so, in the dim cover of the evening, with only the oldest students lingering in the hallways, Harry made the journey up the stairs of the castle to visit the Headmaster once more. The Headmaster's gargoyle did not move upon his arrival, and for a brief second Harry damned himself for forgetting to ask Hermione what exactly the password was, yet such damnation was short-lived as the door swung open without any prompting, offering Harry a return visit to the room he'd broken into only a short matter of time before.

The room was as eclectic and spectacular as ever, and yet in that moment somehow more so than ever. First, because the first sight it contained was, to Harry's surprise, Fleur sitting across the desk from the Headmaster. Secondly, a canvas was draped upon the office's mahogany desk.

"Nice of you to join us, Harry," the Headmaster said, without lifting his gaze from his admiration of that same canvas. "I had begun to worry that the message had been waylaid."

Fleur turned quickly to see him; they shared their private smile.

"You could've just told me to come here directly," Harry said, bluntly.

Dumbledore removed his spectacles, and only then did he look at Harry. "Summons, I find, are like doorways. Using one less-frequented often leads to the most interesting journeys. A thought I'm sure you yourself have had at one point or another," he said. Harry coughed, uncomfortable suddenly. "However, such matters are rather mundane in comparison to the vision I have before me."

It took Harry several moments to realise that he was talking about the painting. By the time he had, he found Dumbledore staring at him.

"This, Harry, is a gift I received from Claude Monet some eighty-or-so years ago," Dumbledore said. Harry walked toward the other two and sat beside Fleur, so as to properly get a look at the work of art. To say it was magnificent would be to say that the sun is warm. "To think, the note he accompanied it with described it as a small sketch, of no more than a day or so's work."

The painting had been preserved by magic to not fade by time's touch, and so its colours were as vibrant as they had been the moment they'd been painted by the master. It captured an instant of nature; a meadow's flowers under the summer sun near Monet's home.

A person could work for as long as they were alive and not even come close to brushing near even the furthest edges of the greatness of that 'small sketch'.

"Captivating, is it not?" Dumbledore questioned the awed room. Harry's head nodded before his mind could process the words truly. "There are scores of magical instruments in this room, some even constructed in pure magic, and yet none of them are quite nearly as incredible as this. That is the beauty of art, I find; to be captivating beyond any understanding."

"Have you ever studied fine art, Professor?" Fleur asked, with a lyrical note to her voice that Harry thought the most perfect sound to accompany the great work before them.

The Headmaster shook his head. "I'm afraid I was not always as appreciative of the wonders the world offers," he admitted. "I was already a man when I met Claude and his family, and he was already much too old to teach a mediocre student. I think, in this, I am destined to be an amateur. An amator, perhaps, but still an amateur."

Fleur turned to Harry. "The Headmaster was telling me about his time in France."

"Many of the happiest days of my life," Dumbledore said, his voice warm with memory. "In those days, I lived in Paris, studied under Nicholas Flamel and met with the finest writers of this century. It was difficult not to find myself in awe on most days." He smiled to himself. "My ego allowed me to do so, but only just."

"What made you come back?" Harry asked. Fleur leaned in as he did.

Dumbledore settled into his chair. "Duty," he announced, after deliberation. "Though I might wish it to be, my life was not one that was to solely contain the arts and the wonders." He looked to Fleur, for a moment. "There were weights only I was fit to carry, crosses only I could bear." He turned to meet Harry's eyes. "A world I needed to help form; one beyond just my own joy."

He stood at once, and took the painting from his desk. Then without a wand or a word spoken, made it disappear back to wherever it had come from.

"Despite how I might wish for it to be, a trip down memory lane is not the cause for our meeting tonight," Dumbledore said, smiling down at the two of them. "You two have performed an act that I had truly never expected to happen in my lifetime. Not a wonder worthy of being a peer of monsieur Monet, but perhaps only a shade lower."

Harry and Fleur both grinned, unabashedly.

Dumbledore bowed his head deferentially. "If you two would permit it, might you allow me to guess your method of entering into this very room without my permission?" he asked. They both nodded fervently. "So, given that the last time he set foot in this castle, Nicholas Flamel could not even enter into this office through the door unless invited, I do doubt it was that particular avenue. The fireplace I too shall dismiss for the very same reason."

Dumbledore looked to the two of them, as if to ask to continue, which they immediately answered with the nodding of their heads.

"To my eyes, that leaves two options," Dumbledore then continued. "The first being that you created a runic array such that my floor was made permeable, though that would take several weeks and a mastery, both of which you did not have." He retrieved his wand. "That leaves, I think, the window and the window alone."

"Yes sir," Harry admitted.

"So, approaching it poses no great curiosity after your recent broom-ly heroics," Dumbledore pondered, with a glance at Harry. "And, in order to gain access through the window, a human-shrinking charm would need to be administered which, while difficult, would fall easily under mademoiselle Delacour's purview.

"There is, as I see it, only one issue-" Dumbledore stopped. "Except, there isn't at all," he added soon after, with a laugh behind his long beard. "My apologies, I forget that arguments are often most interesting when one hears both sides, and one does not simply remain inside my mind." He drew breath, and while he did he brought the room's dim candles brighter. He then met Harry's eyes. "The window, that I now know you and you alone climbed through Harry, is enchanted so that only beings that contain the essence of a phoenix can pass through."

Harry suddenly felt the urge to itch along his right forearm. "I didn't know the essence of a phoenix was contained in its tears."

"They are not large beings after their burning days," Dumbledore said. "They have very few places to put it other than their tears, I suppose."

Fawkes had cried a lot of it to heal Harry on that day, weeping for minutes over the basilisk's incision until at last the burning pain stopped spreading.

"So, I've been carrying around the essence of a phoenix for two years?" Harry asked, in a gasping voice. "Isn't that the sort of thing that changes a person?"

Dumbledore smiled in a manner that made him appear decades younger, unburdened "Perhaps it already has," he said. "Tell me; when did your scar last hurt you?"

"Not since my first year," Harry replied immediately, evenly.

"Then, if we are to believe that it was a curse scar, perhaps our dear friend Fawkes has broken the curse," Dumbledore said, finishing his thought. "It is not the gift of immortality he grants, but a good gift nonetheless."

Though Harry felt as though he was hearing a language he only half-grasped, he could not ignore the weight of the words the older man spoke. Beside him, he could feel Fleur's eyes staring at the side of his jaw inquisitively; he met her gaze and offered a look he hoped she would come to understand as 'later'.

"Nonetheless," Dumbledore amended. "As fun as such speculation may be, it does not bring me any closer to learning the truth of the matter at hand." He clapped his hands together, and such was the odd-enormity of his prior words that Harry fought the urge to jump at the noise. "So, am I correct in my estimations?"

"Fully," Fleur told him.

"Wonderful," Dumbledore announced, rather giddy. "Though at first glance your success was by result of a minor miracle, your efforts are to be respected despite that. I am sure none but you two could have reached the heights necessary to use your graces." He looked to Harry. "And the manner in which you came to possess this miracle may just be a wonder beyond any that we have already spoken of, especially at your age."

Once more, the urge to rub at the old-scar on his arm resurfaced, his face a darkened shade of red. "I don't want to ruin the tone," Harry began, with the express purpose of doing exactly that. "But will anything come of all this?"

"You shall not be serving detentions, if that is your worry," Dumbledore replied, grinning youthfully. "However, I am more than familiar with some of the rumours circulating around certain…rewards for succeeding in your task."

Both Fleur and Harry leaned in then.

"However, I find gifts to be best given in ceremony," Dumbledore then said. "For mademoiselle Delacour, you will find yours on the day of Yule, I assure you."

Fleur nodded, smiling.

"And Harry," Dumbledore came to say. "Your gift, I believe, is one too personal for even that." the Headmaster looked to Fleur. "I do not wish to be rude, but might I be able to have Harry's company alone for a few moments?"

Fleur nodded quickly, standing from her seat. She reached down to hold Harry's hand, her thumb brushing over his palm. She let go after their moment and the door soon swung open, leaving just Harry and the Headmaster.

"To begin, I must apologise," Dumbledore said. "First, for not telling you sooner, and second for not providing your gift thirteen years ago."

"What are you talking about, Sir?" Harry asked, the wheels beginning to turn.

"This morning, I was not in the castle fulfilling my role as the Headmaster," Dumbledore explained. "I was in Albania, performing my role as the man I ought to have been sooner." From nothing, he summoned a familiar wand. "This morning, I caught Peter Pettigrew."

Harry gasped. "What?"

"I know this is surprising, but it is true," Dumbledore assured. "There have been reports of his presence in the magical centres of the country's capital, and they came to be accurate." He placed the wand upon the table. "And, what is more, upon his person, there was this wand, which belonged in its active time of use to Tom Riddle."

"So t-that's-"

"-the brother wand to your own," Dumbledore finished, with a glance to his companion, who rested upon his perch. "This means, of course, that by the new year, your Godfather will be a free man."

"Really?" Harry asked, for want of anything else to ask.

"Yes Harry," Dumbledore reassured. "This ought not to have been a gift, for it is only the life you ought to have had, but it is the best thing I am able to give you."

Harry's eyes went wide. "So I'll be able to live with him?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Without question."

Harry swallowed the breath caught in his throat. "Thank you, Sir," he said. "I really don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," he told Harry. "You owe me no thanks; in truth, I owe you much more than you could ever owe me."

Harry stood, suddenly feeling a great deal too much to sit down. "So what was he doing in Albania?" he felt the urge to ask.

Dumbledore stood too, and walked toward the door. Harry followed him there. "That, Harry, is an answer I will come to learn in the coming days," he said. "However, I would think that your news is best celebrated in better company." They reached the door in stride, Harry rushing to keep up with the taller man. "If I do not see you again before the holidays, I wish you a happy festive period."

Harry smiled brightly. "Thank you, Professor."

He stepped away from the Headmaster's office feeling better than he ever could've possibly hoped. In just a few seconds, his world had grown colours and dimensions that he could've never even thought to comprehend before.

Even in the dream world that was his life, there were still so many things that he thought to be impossible. Feats much too miraculous to happen, too wonderful for any world to hold. A life, with Sirius and a home, was one such wonder.

Until then. For a moment, he was reminded of how he felt on his eleventh birthday. Of first learning miracles exist.

And, as the world returned to him, he came to meet the eyes of Fleur again.

Before he realised it, Harry had taken her into his arms, hugging her close to his body, just as she did the same. He could feel the surprised laugh fall from her as he did, and he laughed too, relieved and exalted and all things in-between. For a moment, he lifted her off of the ground, sweeping her in his arms around the foyer of the office. The act drew another burst of surprised laughter from Fleur, though she did not raise an issue with how he held in the least.

"A good gift, I assume?" Fleur asked, her words falling into the mess of his hair. She was taller than him, so as he lifted her, her voice came from a foot above his head.

Harry laughed. "The best," he said, his eyes closing for a moment as he allowed the feelings within him to stir and swell. The utter, total relief. Then suddenly, he realised their predicament, and placed her down on the ground, in-turn offering the sight of her amused face as he did. "Sorry about that."

She shook her head, with red painted along her cheekbones. "It's okay," she said, her hands coming to touch the warmth of her own skin. Her voice dipped as she added. "It's more than okay, in fact."

With such energy within him, Harry could not stand still for very long, and set about walking the halls; Fleur followed him without a thought.

He thought about her, then. On their games of secrets and bartering. He loved them, yet they did not matter to him at that instant.

"My Godfather is going to be proved innocent," Harry said, the words coming from him easier than he'd ever known them to.

Fleur looked at him with curiosity in her eyes. "I don't think I know the full story."

"Last year, with the dementors," Harry began. "They were searching for Sirius Black, because he'd escaped Azkaban." Fleur nodded, familiar. "But he never should've been imprisoned in the first place; Peter Pettigrew should have been. He was never dead; he just said he was to frame Sirius."

In the aftermath of last term, the ministry had seen it fit to issue a statement to properly handle the delicate nature of all that had occurred; one that did not mention a child's use of a ministry-owned time turner, for example. So, to the rest of the world, Sirius had made an effort to capture Harry, only to be driven away by Professors Snape and Lupin. The dementors then acted wildly, going after the innocent, yet Harry managed to drive them away with his Patronus. According to the minister, the creatures had since been banished from this world.

"But," Harry said, with what felt like dawn's light in his voice. "Pettigrew has just been captured."

Fleur grabbed his arm so that he stopped his pacing. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his face into the crook of her neck. Harry found comfort there easily.

"So Pettigrew was your family's betrayer?" Fleur asked softly. Harry nodded against her skin, his nose brushing ticklishly against her nape. He'd never been one to seek another's touch, before, and yet here he did not know of a single thing that felt more natural.

Conscious of the fact that they were in the middle of a hallway, Harry led them to the nearest free classroom. It was, Harry knew, the Headmaster's old Transfiguration classroom, from the time he'd actively taught the subject.

Harry sat upon the empty desk, and Fleur joined him upon it too.

"My relatives don't really like magic. They're not the biggest fans of me, either," started Harry, not looking at her as he spoke. "So I- " He stopped. "I-I think I might have a chance of finding a home."

A place where he was allowed to be exactly who he was. One where he didn't need to strip away parts of himself for other people's benefit. One of magic being celebrated, rather than hidden.

"Do you think your godfather will be ready to take you in?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "I hope so," he said. "And that hope is far better than anything I've got now."

"I'm sorry," Fleur said.

Harry did look at her then. "Don't be," he said. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

The day wasn't a sorrowful one, either. It was truly the happiest of days.

He felt more than saw the sigh Fleur drew in, before she began to speak.

"It is my grand-mère," Fleur began. Upon the desk, her hand gently trembled. "Why I have such a preoccupation with Professor Dumbledore, that is." Her hand clenched, as if to snuff out the jitters in her skin. "Veela have not had the kindest history; even the objectified existence we have now is leagues beyond what my people suffered in years gone by, though."

Harry reached out to hold her hand. She leaned into his touch.

"In the thirties, Grindelwald feared our abilities, and so he attacked our communes along the Rhin," Fleur explained, her voice growing shaky and uneven. Harry passed his hand over her arm, his touch gentle. "They would have killed many, if not for Dumbledore." She wiped away at her eyes with her free hand. "They would have taken my grand-mère without him."

With her final word, her voice softened to nothing and Harry swept an arm around her hack, another wrapping around her waist. She leaned against his side, her hands gripping onto his sleeves and her head over his heart.

They did not move for an age. Both utterly content to stay in one-another's touch, in that moment. They forget themselves, then. Forgot who they ought to be; forgot who they ought to have been for one another. Instead, they closed their eyes to the world and just were.

"I don't think it would do our backs any good to sleep here," Harry said to break the silence, finding his voice hoarse. The rumble of his sleepy voice brought Fleur's eyes open, they having closed to allow their comfort to wash over her. "This room isn't warm enough for that, either."

"I am warm enough," Fleur said, without an effort to move a muscle. Harry looked to see her clothes, and such was the strangeness of the day that he only then realised that she wore his jumper, the sleeves pulled over her hands and only her thumbs poking through.

"Comfortable, isn't it?" Harry asked.

Fleur smiled, distracted. "Yes, it is," she agreed, before her eyes opened. Her voice was quick to add. "Your school jumpers are amazing. The best part of this country, truly."

" _The_ best?"

Her lips quirked into a smile. "Perhaps second, perhaps third," she teased. "The place grows on you in time."

"People have noticed you wearing it, by the way," Harry offered, his voice careful.

Fleur shook her head. "I don't care," she said. "The people will always talk; let them. They will never understand or even try to."

"They'll never know the truth of it all," Harry agreed.

What they saw was of no consequence. The best things were theirs and theirs alone. No-one else's.

"I think I owe you a secret," Fleur said, her last word uttered into his chest before she left him to stand up suddenly. The loss of her upon him made him feel unmoored.

"You really don't have to," Harry rushed to say.

Fleur shook her head. "We must be fair with this, 'Arry," she told him. "You gave me a hope of yours. Now I owe you a hope of my own."

He reached out to take her hand; her touch tethering him. He brought their palms together, comparing the size of their hands, before he threaded them together. "Again, you really don't have to."

"I cannot give you any room to complain," Fleur argued, drawing Harry to smile. She drew a deliberate breath. "My hope is not of the same magnitude as yours, I admit, but it is a hope I have carried for years."

Harry nodded.

"When I was younger, I wished to be a ballet dancer," Fleur said, smiling to him. "I took lessons and I loved it."

There was a wistful air to her, then. "What happened?" Harry asked.

"Another day," Fleur answered. Another secret, Harry came to realise.

"Do you still dance, then?"

Fleur smiled, flirting with withholding her words. "On occasion," she answered, deciding against the idea, it seemed. "Not as well as I ought to, though."

Harry found that impossible to believe. He stood up.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, on a whim.

"So you are the dancing type," Fleur announced. "Let's dance, then."

Perhaps more so out of instinct than awareness, his hand found itself at her waist, her other hand clasped upon hers. Never before had Harry been offered a better look at Fleur's beauty.

She was unfathomable; he was once more utterly overwhelmed. He could not believe, then, that she existed and that he was allowed to look at her. No art could compare, nor none of nature's beauty even approach hers.

If art was to be captivating, she was art.

"Have you ever danced before?" Fleur asked.

"Never," Harry announced, his voice soft even to his own ears. If he were not careful, he knew he could lose himself in looking at her and she deserved better than that.

"Then you are bound to be awful," Fleur said to him, smiling with an amused sort of cruelty. "Fortunately, you shall have me to guide you."

There was no music to dance to, no rhythm to fill the air, and so they satisfied themselves with swaying from side to side. Harry did not believe they kept to any beat, and he could not raise the energy to care. All that mattered then was how Fleur felt in his arms, and how wonderful it was to look into her eyes.

"This is not dancing," Fleur said, amused.

"Then perhaps you ought to teach me what that is," Harry prompted. "I can think of worse ways to pass the time."

"Add that to the list of things we must do," Fleur said, smiling at the thought. "Our matchmaking, our dancing, our…"

She trailed off, though Harry knew by the look in her eyes exactly what she meant to say.

Our everything.

 _Ours_.

As the light outside dimmed to nothing but the moonlight, and even the candles that lined the corridors dimmed to near-blackness, they remained in that classroom. They danced, or not-danced, and they laughed without worry for the whole night. Harry planned to contact Sirius, and Fleur planned the many ways she sought to tease Harry.

The world, for them, had never looked brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amator = Lover (This is the root word of amateur, and so it is someone who loves what they do, in spite of their skill)


	6. Fire, Phoenixes and Visions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the next chapter!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and if you did let me know what you thought with a review as they're the best inspiration to write more and writer more quickly.
> 
> Big thanks to the Flowerpot Discord for the inspiration and Beta-reading of this chapter. First, and biggest, thanks to Michal and Red for their great beta-work. Special thanks too to the sprinting buddies, for pushing me on to get this chapter written. You guys are the best.
> 
> Anyway, here it is!

The tropics, as Harry found out, had treated Sirius very kindly. The news of his soon decarceration had drifted along their warmer airs, and even through his letter, it was easy to see the change it had brought about his Godfather.

Sirius and Dumbledore had contacted one-another apparently, with the Headmaster instructing him to remain exactly where he was until Pettigrew's trial was complete. Such a fate was no great shame to Sirius, of course, as it was an instruction to stay in a land that offered endless sun and total anonymity; both of which, afterwards, he would not see for a long time in England.

Yet, the one point that stuck with Harry from his letter was that, the moment Sirius gained his family home, it would be Harry's home too. He found it difficult not to smile in the days following. His fate of endless-smiling was not blunted by Hagrid either, who told him in the Great Hall, breaking through crowds of wishful teenagers surrounding Harry to do so, that he had asked Madame Maxime to the ball, and she had agreed.

And so, Harry found himself rapping his knuckles against Fleur's carriage door, with the intent, perhaps for the first ever time, of doing exactly what they'd initially set out to do.

With the winter solstice only days away, the sky had already decided to shade itself in darker hues even at midday. The snow was not as thick upon the ground as it was most years, with more students staying for the winter break and more snowball fights and snowmen as a result.

Fleur, as he found out then, had been waiting for his arrival for it took him only two knocks before her door swung open sharply. She hurriedly beckoned him in and shut the door behind him at the first moment she could without closing the door _upon_ him. Her wand danced around the room, casting warming charms on anything that could be charmed, her bed tidying itself and her cushions setting themselves straight.

His chest warmed then though. Warmed that she'd allowed him to go into her room; that she'd trusted him with that.

In the corner of the room, a desk that appeared big enough for a toddler grew larger under her command until it would fit the pair of them before it walked itself into the middle of the room, its two chairs walking along behind it.

"Wow," Harry said, eyeing the room as it turned to perfection in just a few moments.

"You would not have to have seen that, had you arrived on-time," Fleur told him.

"I'm a minute early," Harry argued, nodding his head toward her clock.

Fleur smiled, demure. "What is the matter, 'Arry?" she asked. "Did you not wish to spend another moment without me?"

Harry's skin then found itself in a darker hue. "Obviously," he said though, meeting her eyes as he spoke.

Her skin mirrored his. "Oh," she said, softly. "It's less fun if you agree."

Harry smiled and sank into his chair. "Sorry," he said, before he added in a teasing voice. "I hate you, and I never want to see you again. Better?"

"Much," Fleur agreed, sitting across from him. Her voice grew quieter, then. "I'm happy that you arrived now though." She wrapped her arms around herself, her hands rubbing along the sleeves of his jumper as if to coax warmth into her skin. She eyed his torso, to the Quidditch jersey he wore. "The sooner you arrive, the sooner I can get warm."

Harry sighed. "Do you want another jumper?" he asked, his hands already at the hem of the one he wore.

Fleur nodded. "If you insist."

"Is there something wrong with your clothes?" Harry asked, though he'd already slipped his arms free of his jersey and thrown it toward her, leaving him in a top he'd probably find too thin to wear in summer in Scotland.

She shook her head. "But they are over there." Fleur pointed to her wardrobe, which stood a _vast_ distance away across the room. "It would be a wasted effort to get them when you are already here, no?"

Harry sighed, watching her pull the jumper immediately over herself.

"Better?" Harry asked. Given that it only correctly fitted him when he wore his full Quidditch pads, Harry's jersey was massive on Fleur even as she draped it over the top of her other stolen top.

If he was not careful, he'd soon find himself entirely out of clothes.

"Much," she said, sinking into his jersey as though it were a duvet, wrapping herself fully in its material. "How do I look?"

"Like the biggest Quidditch nerd in the world," Harry told her. Other words, like adorable, went unsaid in words, though his eyes spoke them truly enough. The blush that grew upon her at his gaze brought forth the word again, too.

"So," Harry began, mostly to shake his mind into focus. "We really do need to help Madam Maxime and Hagrid."

Fleur took a moment but nodded along. She summoned over a page of notes with only the very tip of her wand poking from her sleeves, the rest ensconced in the warmth of his jersey. "I have put some thought into this," she said. Harry peeked over to look, his eyes widening as he viewed the full scope of what she'd written.

"That's a lot more than 'some'," Harry commented, his eyes skimming over the notes before one point caught his eye. "Do we really need to take into account what Hagrid's favourite colour is, or his opinion on vegetarianism?"

"We might if Madame Maxime develops synaesthesia, or becomes a vegetarian," Fleur defended. "It never hurts to be more prepared."

"Hagrid's a good person," Harry said. "If something is important to someone he cares about, he'll _always_ make an effort."

Like a cake for a birthday of a boy he'd never truly met before, or a photo album for Christmas, of a family he'd not been allowed to have.

"Could I make a suggestion?" Harry asked. Fleur nodded. "Well, if they suit one another, I'm sure they'll be able to work their way through the finer points. Hagrid-" He paused. "Hagrid is a great person, but he's not eloquent. His heart is always in the right place, but his mouth most often isn't." Harry sighed. "He's worried that he might say the wrong thing, and he wants to know what the wrong thing might be so he can avoid saying it. He worries that he doesn't deserve your Headmistress, but he really wants to try to."

Fleur nodded. "Madame Maxime is a…careful person," she said in reply. "There are certain aspects of her that are not widely appreciated. Being a half-giant, for one." Her eyes watched his face for a reaction, though did not find one. "She wishes to know that monsieur Hagrid is not attempting to hurt her before she can begin to open herself to the idea of liking him."

Harry met her eyes. "Then we need a way of reassuring her that there are people in the world, with lives like hers, that just want to care for her."

"She has not been shown much care in her life from the world," Fleur replied. "But I know she is willing to try, for the right person." She cleared her throat. "And, we also need to show him to not worry about being worthy. All that matters is how happy someone makes you."

"I think they make each other very happy," Harry said, his eyes not leaving hers.

"I think they do too," Fleur agreed before she looked down to her notes. "But, if he is worried about saying the wrong thing, it would be best if he did not mention her heritage. It is not the most comfortable of subjects for her."

"Good to know," Harry agreed. Hagrid had been rather excited by the idea, though Harry was sure that he would understand. "Anything else?"

"Charms," she said immediately, the word bursting from her like a revelation. "The subject is her life's work, and she will likely talk about it forever if given the opportunity. She's…enamoured with them." Fleur closed her eyes. "Obsessed, perhaps. If such drive would push Monsieur Hagrid away, it would be wise for him to know now."

Harry recalled then the many hours he'd spent sitting before Hagrid's fireplace listening to him talk about the minute differences in care required for the various breeds of acromantula.

"That's really not going to be a problem," Harry replied easily. "Quite honestly, she will have to prepare herself to hear about magical beings the moment she stops to draw breath."

There was a challenge in Fleur's eyes. "When I was 12, I mentioned to her that I was struggling with the freezing charm," she said. "I was in her office for three hours while she discussed its invention, development, and the alterations and refinements it had gone through over the past eight centuries." She drew breath. "I left the room so overwhelmed I didn't even manage to work out how to perform the spell until the following year."

There was surprise upon her face after she spoke; as though she'd lost control of her mouth momentarily.

"When I was eleven, Hagrid hatched a dragon," Harry said. Shock was still upon Fleur's face, but for entirely different reasons. Her eyes, oddly, dipped to his right arm, to the scar then-exposed by her clothes-stealing. "He didn't at any point question whether his house could sustain a dragon, or if, maybe, he ought to have contacted the ministry before getting a dragon. He just got one, and we ended up getting one of my best friend's brothers to get it before something went wrong."

Harry worried for a moment that he'd said too much, though Fleur was smiling as he'd stopped.

"Madame Maxime invented a variation on the cheering charm one summer, and she was so confident in her intuition that she did not even perform the Arithmancy required to see if it would actually be castable by a wand," Fleur said. "She very nearly lost hers the first time she tried to cast her creation, and to this day one side of the wood is singed smooth."

Harry laughed. "God, these two are perfect for each other."

Fleur laughed too. "Provided they do not do too much harm to themselves unsupervised."

The thought that _they_ were worrying over the safety of their favourite Professors, and not the other way around, made him laugh harder.

"You mentioned he invented a creature," Fleur said, in-between their laughs. "A blast-something?"

"A blast-ended-skrewt," Harry informed. He'd not thought much of the time they'd spoken in the Astronomy Tower, other than to ask Professor Sinistra one night after his Astronomy class about her success. Professor Burbage had said yes to her, of course.

"What are they?" Fleur asked, her elbows upon the table. Well, her elbows underneath about a foot of wool.

"An abomination," Harry told her, tonelessly. Fleur laughed, thinking that he was in any way kidding. He wasn't. "They're giant scorpions made of fire and pure hatred."

"What?"

"They wear armour and don't know fear."

Fleur shook her head. "I'm sorry I asked."

Usually, Harry got along with magical creatures perfectly. He felt that he understood them, even. Yet, with the Skrewts, they just detested him. It was like they had a radar for him, too, as even as he stuck to the back of the class while the demonstrations took place, they still aimed their tails at him and tried to burn him as he stood. He dodged every time, of course, but he just _knew_ that they were out to get him.

As Harry came from his thoughts, he found Fleur staring at his right arm again.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, watching her stare intently at his less famous scar.

"Nothing," Fleur said, before shaking her head. "No, I was just curious."

"It doesn't hurt, if that's what you're wondering," Harry said.

Fleur shook her head again. "I wasn't wondering that," she told him. "Though I am relieved to hear it." She smiled. "I wouldn't want you to blame your loss in the tournament on that, anyway."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'd beat you even if the basilisk was still biting me."

"If only it had bitten your mouth," Fleur said. "Then, I wouldn't need to hear you speak such nonsense."

They shared a smile.

"What were you thinking?" Harry prompted.

Fleur leaned over the edge of the table, her hand peeking out of her sleeves to reach and touch the scar with her own hands, Harry meeting her halfway. With her index finger, she passed over the tender flesh absently.

Harry couldn't contain the shiver that was sent through him.

"If I am thinking correctly, you were bitten by a basilisk in its death throes and the Headmaster's phoenix healed your wound?" Fleur queried. Harry nodded, though he could hardly hear through the feeling of her skin against his. "And it apparently required so much of the firebird that you hold a piece of him with you now?"

Harry had to close his eyes so that he could speak, as focus alluded him otherwise.

"Well, two," Harry said, breathless. He could feel the smile on Fleur's face as she watched him. "My wand holds one of his feathers, too."

Fleur, it seemed, had gained her fill of watching him grow red and took away her touch. "Fascinating," she said. As Harry opened his eyes, he found that Fleur had shifted her chair closer to him, or at least seemed to anyway. "Do you have any special ability with conjuring flames?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't think I've ever been in a situation to find out," he said. "I don't often get the temptation to start burning things."

" _Really?_ " Fleur asked, her shock forming distance between them. "What do you do if you're angry?"

"Confront the person who made me angry," Harry said immediately.

The person was, ninety-nine percent of the time, Draco Malfoy, which meant he also ended up winning a duel or forcing him to run away about ninety-nine percent of the time, too.

"And if you can't?" Fleur asked.

"Oh," Harry realised. "Then I just, kinda, keep it inside of me."

"And then what?"

"It stays there?" Harry offered, caught between question and answer. "I don't know. I haven't given it much thought."

Fleur sighed, ever-artfully. "That isn't good," she said, before standing. "I have an idea."

Harry did as Fleur asked, though came to find that he immediately found himself only inches away from her once more, just as they had been on that night they'd danced together.

"Is dancing your idea?" Harry asked, smiling.

She slowly shook her head. "We did not even dance _then_ ," she said, with no doubt as to when 'then' was, for there was only truly one 'then'. "My idea involves fire."

"Does your plan involve _telling_ me your plan?" Harry asked.

"Eventually," she teased. "Tell me; when you flew around your dragon like a blind house-fly, did you ever get burned?"

"You mean to ask me if, when I outwitted the most dangerous magical creature in the world, like a flying genius, did I get burned?" Harry asked of himself, clarifying only to see the fond exasperation dawn upon Fleur's face. "Then no, I didn't."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever allows you to sleep at night," she replied. "But did you not find that odd?"

"I was a bit too preoccupied with thanking Merlin that I still had all of my limbs to stop and consider it," Harry said. "Though, now that you mention it, I did get a little bit too close to its flames for that to have been normal."

The fire, at one stage, had been so great that it had broken through the protections on his, aptly named, Firebolt and grew hot to the touch even through his gloves. Yet, Harry had come away unscathed.

"So, you think that Fawkes had something to do with it?" Harry asked.

"Exactly," Fleur agreed with a nod. "I think, perhaps, that Fawkes' protection goes beyond just the basilisk's venom."

Harry grinned brightly. "Let's find out," he added immediately.

"I am of the Veela, 'Arry," Fleur reminded him. "Any fire that I conjure will burn hotter than it might for another witch."

"Madam Pomfrey is only three floors away," Harry replied, nodding toward the castle. "I haven't seen her in ages, anyway. She'll be expecting me."

He'd also missed one of his check-ups for his injuries, either by purposeful neglect or distraction he was not sure, so she was all the more likely to be awaiting him.

"You're sure?" Fleur asked, seeking clarity.

"Of course," Harry reassured. "And it's your idea, so stop worrying." He clapped his hands together. "Let's get on with it."

Fleur shook her head before she rolled up the long sleeves of his jersey, her wand held purposefully soon afterward. "Let's hope I'm right," she said. She pointed her wand into the air. " _Incendio_."

A plume of fire seared through the air of the carriage, beginning at her wand and stopping just short of the chandelier. The air thickened around the room as she cast her spell, drawing beads of sweat from both of their brows.

"I am resistant to fire, and especially my own," Fleur said. "So, I can do _this-_." 'This' was apparently to put her hand directly into her flame. "-Without a single worry in the world. No pain, no ill-effects."

Fleur pulled her hand away. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then the flame diminished in size, spreading only a hand's length above her wand before it stopped. The heat of the room did not reduce, though.

She gave him a smile. "Your turn," Fleur said. She trained her wand toward him. There was a strange sort of glee in her eyes as she did, too.

And, despite any logic he could hope to force through his brain, Harry pushed his hand into the fire without a single moment of hesitation. He awaited the burning pain of course. The feeling he'd first came to experience at the business end of an iron years before. Yet, to his astonishment, nothing came.

There was heat, and a great deal of it, but no pain. No burning. His skin, while warm, went uninjured.

"I wish I'd known this years ago," Harry said, his eyes fixated on his on-fire hand. He spread his hand as wide as it could be stretched, and yet still no change occurred. "I would've been far less scared facing the Horntail."

"You still should've been afraid," Fleur commented. Her eyes closed, and the flame returned to its original stature. Oddly, the change seemed to cause relaxation in her, like a spring finally allowed to uncoil. "Had you researched dragons properly, you'd know that their fire burns hotter than any other known flame; far hotter than either of us could hope to withstand."

Harry shook his head. "I have faith."

"You could have a bucket of water and a fire extinguisher, and you still wouldn't last very long," she told him. She pulled back upon her magic, and the fire disappeared, though Harry's eyes would've had to have been open to know it. "You are resistant, then, yet I wonder about something else…"

Fleur tucked her wand away, meeting his eyes purposefully.

"Veela can create fire under their own power as easily and as naturally as they would breathe air," Fleur began by saying. "Being that such magic is distantly connected to me, I can do the same, though without such ease."

Harry's eyes went wide. "You don't have to show me if you don't want to," he stated. After that night, he'd come to understand what her heritage meant to her slightly better. Not fully, and not even close to it, but he was set properly upon that journey then.

She smiled, reassuring. "I want to," she said. Harry reached out to her hand, to hold it for a moment. "My point was that perhaps with your connection to Fawkes, you may find yourself capable of something similar."

Harry grinned immediately. "Do you think I could get wings made of fire or something?" he asked. "It'd make Quidditch easier, for one."

If he could fly half as fast as Fawkes, he'd never need to ue his beloved Firebolt ever again. He still _would_ , of course, but he would not need to.

"You'd set all of your jerseys aflame," Fleur said, looking at him peculiarly.

"I'd have wings made of fire," Harry argued. "I really don't think I'd care."

Fleur _definitely_ looked at him peculiarly after that. A very good kind of peculiar, though.

"So," she said, clearing her throat. "Before you plot on ways to help England win a Quidditch game for the first time this century, would you like me to show you?"

Harry smiled. "If you'd like to."

Fleur smiled back. Her eyes dipped closed, and her face began to behold an intensity he'd not seen of her before. Not in their arguments in the beginning, nor anywhere else.

She splayed her hand as widely as it could possibly go, and something seemed to rise from her skin as she did. It was only faint, as though the imprint of something was showing itself and Harry was not entirely certain he had not imagined it, though he knew in some distant part of himself that it was there.

Slowly, this transient energy took form upon her hand until her skin began to glow in light. Smoke formed before the flame, though only moments before, and soon her hand was unseen behind the fire of her own creation, the flame a shade of blue that accompanied her eyes exactly.

Fleur breathed heavily when it formed truly, though the ease filled her as she did.

"Now that I have formed this, it takes no effort to sustain," Fleur said, her lungs returning to purpose. "An extension of myself, of my magic."

Her blue eyes seemed to burn with that fire as she looked at him. "Why don't you do what you did before?" she instructed. "The fire will be of no greater heat, but you should gain a better understanding of the process, and perhaps you might come to learn if you are able to do it yourself."

Harry approached her at once. He was not as exuberant as he had been before. His excitement had not diminished at all, though there was a careful edge to his steps.

"If you are sure?" he felt it necessary to ask, his steps not slowing.

"I would not offer if I was not," Fleur remarked. " _Allez_."

The moment she'd said the word, he took her hand into his, though nothing could've prepared him for what followed.

The second their skin met amongst her fire, a vision passed through his eyes.

For an instant, he saw in clarity more perfect than he'd ever known before, he could see the gaze of her blue eyes. Their inescapable blue shade, the grace in their gaze, the wonder of their expression. He saw Fleur soon afterward, her body fully held in that very flame she held so easily. Her hair flowing, her skin alight in its glow.

The world flooded back to him immediately after. The world, and with it Fleur and her piercing eyes.

"Did you see a vision too?" Harry asked before he could begin to think about what he was saying.

"Only you," Fleur answered, her focus not leaving him. "You saw something?"

"You," Harry said at once. "I saw you."

"You didn't need a vision for that," Fleur said, though even her voice grew less assured, her fire flickering around their hands. "I am here."

Harry was undeterred, though. "I saw you captured by the flame," Harry explained. He squeezed her hand. "Have you ever heard of something like that?"

"I can hardly believe I'm hearing it now," Fleur replied. Her eyes dipped closed, and when they opened her fire was no more. Neither moved their hands away nor even thought of doing so. "What happened, then?"

"Nothing _happened_ ," Harry said. "You were just there, just as you are now, except instead of fire being _here_ -" He brushed his thumb over her hand. "-It was over all of you."

"And that's it?" Fleur clarified, expectantly. "You didn't gain any insight?"

"The only insight I gained is what you'd look like if you were on fire," Harry told her. Breathtaking was perhaps the most apt description. Hot, if he were feeling uninspired.

Fleur hmm-ed upon her breath. "This requires more thought," she said, after pausing for thought. "Fortunately, after I was chosen for the tournament, Madam Maxime imported all the literature on Veela she could find so that we would be prepared for anything." She pointed toward the interior door to her room, which connected her own carriage to the others, and the largest one specifically. "They're in our library."

Fleur set off no sooner than she'd stopped speaking, her own academic curiosity propelling her onward, and by virtue of their connected hands, dragging Harry along too.

"Okay," Harry said, in a deliberate tone of voice. Such was his tone that she stopped where she stood. He extended his index finger. "Two things. First, youhave a library?" He extended his middle finger. "Second, are you really going to wear that jersey to the library with everyone there?"

"First, yes. Yours is just bigger, and it is full of new people to gossip about," Fleur told him. "And second, watch me." She tugged his hand. " _Allez_."

Harry shook his head at her words, his face blooming red, though he couldn't shake his smile as they made their very conspicuous way to the library, past doors of larger dormitories and classrooms as they did. The carriages were larger on the inside than they first appeared, though not by a great deal, as they still were to be pulled by the Abraxans after all.

They were nice to look at, certainly, though he did get the strange sense of being dropped into a children's fairy-tale while he walked their halls. There was interest to be found, though they did not hold the wildness that Hogwarts' halls held.

The library did not quite hold the same hubbub as his own school's, and mostly because it was so sparsely populated. It being a somewhat-temporary abode, the building lacked a depth of feeling that came in abundance in the castles, for good and for bad. There was not the overbearing worry, but there were not arcane energies humming in the air, either.

It felt safe, and it held Fleur, and that was more than enough to captivate him.

There were hardly more than a handful of students there, and most were so set in their revision that they took no notice of their arrival. Fleur still looked absurd in his jersey, and even more so set against the pale blue of their schools' colours, but no-one but him was there to see it. There was not even a librarian holding dominion over the room.

Fleur made a direct line to one bookshelf in particular. Whether it be by memory or through knowledge of the magical equivalent of the Dewey Decimal system Harry was not sure, though soon after following her there he found his arms full of books written in languages he did not even know how to attempt to speak.

"If any know of what happened, it will be these books," Fleur whispered, in-between quick flitting through the bookstacks. "Otherwise, we may have to consult a seer."

"I'd rather claim momentary insanity," muttered Harry back. The last thing he needed was Professor Trelawney stating it was yet another omen to his ever-encroaching, ever-inevitable premature demise.

"I think your sanity left the window some time ago," Fleur said, standing straight and directing him to one of the many empty tables. She picked one in the furthest corner from the door, obscured by a consortium of restricted books on ancient war magic written in Old Norman. "Let's see if your vision proves it."

Predictably, in the time they spent pouring over the parchments, they did not find a great deal of anything. However, given how bizarre his own life was, Harry found it difficult to have imagined anything else. Phoenixes don't often give parts of themselves to ones who are not their wizarding companion, and if one such event did occur, such a gifted person had never interacted with one of Veela descent.

Harry had not imagined that their meeting would be academically relevant, yet there they were. Breaking ground. Fleur, it seemed, was caught between exasperation and fascination. Each page's turn yielded nothing but disappointment, and yet each empty page provided space for the two of them to fill. She was utterly wonderful then, Harry found himself thinking in-between his own parallel studying, her focus enthralling.

"So," Fleur said, forgetting to whisper as she slammed the latest tomb shut. "Academia has nothing to offer us." It was a thought Harry had experienced several times before, himself. Usually yearly, and usually right before he'd invariably have to do something stupid like find the Philosopher's Stone. "Which means we are cresting a wave everyone else is yet to see."

"Either that or my brain is faulty," Harry said. "Hopefully the first thing."

"I think both," Fleur returned. "Though that certainly bears further testing."

They both got up to leave, with ideas flowing over how and what exactly had happened, yet the moment they arose a voice called out, stopping them in their tracks.

"Harry," called Aimée, as it soon appeared to be. "I could not think of a single place I expected to see you less than here."

Her voice sounded odd, and he came to realise sluggishly that she was speaking English.

Harry laughed in mild unease. "Fleur and I were just going through… _tournament_ stuff," he said, his words flimsy to his own ears. He found himself mostly thankful he remembered to speak English himself.

Aimée pressed her lips together, her arms folded. "That requires her wearing your jersey, of course," she muttered. "Can I join you?" Her hands already began to fall to her bag to spill its contents onto the table. "I only need to work through my Defence questions then and I am free for the next few weeks at least."

"We were just going to leave," Fleur began to say, rising from her chair. Her voice grew curt, to Harry's ears at least. Whether it be due to the language or the circumstance, Harry did not know.

"Are you sure?" Aimée asked, her voice soft, and only growing softer still when she added in French. "I have not spoken to you properly in an age, Lis."

Harry's eyes snapped toward Aimée after she spoke. He knew he ought to have held himself back, if he wished to continue his apparent ignorance of her native language, though it was he then who found himself transfixed by curiosity.

"So you two know each other?" Harry asked, rather dumbly.

Fleur thought for a time, and then returned to her seat, crossing her arms across herself. "We have gone to the same academy for five years," Fleur told him, though her words lacked the bite she most often carried. "It would be more difficult not to know each other."

"Yes," Aimée then said, with a look to Fleur from the corner of her eye. "Lis was one of the first friends I made at Beauxbatons."

Begrudgingly, Fleur allowed herself to smile. "She woke up late on her first day and would've missed Professor Parnasse's lesson had I not woken her."

"I had been home-schooled for my whole life," Aimée defended. "I hardly knew what an alarm was, let alone how to use one." She then smiled herself. "Has Lis told you about how she wore her blazer inside-out for the first week of term?"

"No way!" Harry exclaimed, grinning at Fleur as her skin reddened.

"It's true," Aimée added. "She would glare at everyone, and so no-one plucked up the courage to tell her, until at last, the Headmistress called her into her office for it."

"How do you even manage to do that?" Harry asked Fleur. He tried to think how on Earth he would manage to wear his robes inside out, though he found himself struggling.

"They are thinner than you think they are," Fleur muttered. "And they are quite similar, the inside and the out."

Aimée laughed. "It is a testament to your glare that no-one made fun of you."

Fleur raised her nose to the air. "They had common sense."

Aimée smiled in recollection, before turning to Harry. "There was once a time when I was a better student than Lis too, though that time has long passed," she told him. "She was always good, and then just before she took her OWLs, it was as if overnight she became brilliant."

Fleur's eyes lost their expression, her face blank in an instant. "I realised that I would not get far by playing games," she said, before standing. "I'm going to look for books on Phoenixes, 'Arry, to see if there is something there."

She left the two of them without another word. In an instant, Aimée had grabbed onto Harry's arm.

"What's going on with you two?" she asked, excitedly. "Is it what it appears to be?" She gripped his arm even tighter. "How can it be anything else?"

"To answer," Harry said, taken aback by the stark interest the usually poised Aimée showed. "I don't know, I don't know, and I don't know."

"Well, it looks like she's wearing your clothes," Aimée first pointed out. "Which even Neville and I do not do."

"Yet," Harry added.

Aimée shrugged. "Probably," she acquiesced. "But that does not change that you are doing it now."

Harry shrugged back. "She likes my clothes," he said, his heart warming as she frowned in discontent. "What's going on with you two, anyway?" His eyes looked to Fleur. "It seemed odd."

"It's not my place," Aimée said before she muttered in French. "Better to ask your girlfriend, anyway."

Thankfully, Harry was saved from the maelstrom Aimée then caused within him by Fleur returning.

"So, phoenixes?" Harry asked, immediately as she sat down, steadfastly ignoring Aimée beside him, though he did not need to see her to know the expression she held as he looked at Fleur and Fleur alone.

Fleur nodded. "Phoenixes," she agreed. She split her pile of books in two, passing one to him and holding onto the other. "Though if there is nothing, I doubt there will be any struggle in working this out for ourselves."

Despite the odd tension that seemed to pass between the other two, Harry found their time oddly companionable. They were silent mostly, with Fleur's frown returning as even their new resources proved fruitless.

"Do you happen to know the theory behind the Hex-ridding counter spell?" Aimée asked, in one of the few breaks of the silence.

"It channels away negative energies, and if cast perfectly it replaces them with positives ones," Harry said, not even looking up from his book.

Aimée took a moment. "Thanks," she did say, though, and only then did Harry realise that she was likely asking Fleur.

Harry closed then closed that book. "I don't think we're getting anywhere," he said to Fleur.

"There is just nothing to find, it seems," Fleur rushed to agree. "It seems as though we are to be on our own in this."

"You two are going, then?" Aimée asked. They nodded, and she turned to look at Harry. "I had hoped to ask you something."

Unfortunately, Harry did not find out what exactly that something was, as they were joined by another person then, though on this occasion it was not someone he'd ever seen before.

A boy had appeared, shorter than Harry yet taller than Aimée. He looked to be Harry's age, with curly hair partway between blond and brown, and eyes a warm hazel.

"Hi," he said, with a slight wave, his English holding a noticeable accent made more noticeable by the slight shake it held too. "I think you're very handsome, and I was wondering if I could accompany you to the ball?"

There was something strange about his words; he sounded as though he'd memorised them. He breathed heavily the moment he'd finished, and Harry realised then that he probably had.

"You can speak French if you wish, Antoine," Fleur said, watching on. "'Arry understands."

"I knew it," Aimée muttered, behind him.

Harry ignored Aimée for the moment. "Antoine is it?" he asked, in French. The boy nodded. "I think you're lovely, but I don't think I'm going to take you." He paused then, an idea striking. "But, if you'd be willing, I think I might have someone who would be a wonderful partner for you."

"I thought you'd grown tired of this?" Aimée asked, her voice whispering.

"Special circumstances for special people," Harry muttered back, before meeting the boy's eyes. "So, what do you think?"

Antoine allowed silence to hold the room, his hands tugging at the sleeve of his jumper. "Will he be English?"

"I think he will, yeah," Harry told him, smiling.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Then please do," he said, his voice shy though his eyes bright.

Harry smiled at him. "Do you want to meet them before, or do you want the night to be a surprise?"

"Surprise," the boy blurted, no sooner than the moment Harry himself said the word. "More romantic that way."

"He'll see you there," Harry said. The boy gave him one last, beaming smile and went off on his way, bursting through the carriage's doors to enjoy the snowy outdoors.

The sight was wonderful to see, though Harry found he could only enjoy it briefly.

"So, you speak French?" Aimée asked, to his back.

"You did not know?" Fleur asked. She laughed, then. "Oh, that is funny. Sorry for telling her, 'Arry."

She didn't sound particularly sorry.

"So, all of the times I talked about Neville, you understood every word?" Aimée asked, realisations spooling directly from her mind to her mouth with nothing in-between.

"I don't know whether to be proud of him for being a good kisser or not," Harry commented, idly. "Though really, you never asked if I understood or not."

Aimée bloomed red. "I really should've expected you of all people to have been full of surprises," she muttered, before beginning to grin. "Though, just because _I_ know, that doesn't mean that Émilie needs to know."

Fleur grinned dangerously. "Are you laying a trap on dear Emi?" she asked. The words didn't mean an awful lot to Harry, though they did to Aimée, it seemed, as her grin only grew. "I _need_ to see this."

"The offer is always open, Lis," Aimée said, her words holding weight. "Just as it always was."

A conversation occurred between their eyes, until Fleur nodded at last. "Another time, then."

"Soon," Aimée amended.

"Soon."

They parted then, and Harry found himself staring at Fleur for the entire walk to her carriage. "What was that?"

"Secrets," was all Fleur answered, the answer equal parts enthralling and irritating. Her carriage, as they entered then, felt as warm as it had before with the fire filling it. Fleur slammed the door behind them, as if to keep the heat in.

Harry brought his hand on top of hers, their skin meeting upon the door.

"One day," Harry whispered, aware of their closeness and almost nothing else. "I'm going to know them all."

A flash of something like worry went through her eyes.

"One day," she whispered. "I just might let you."

They relaxed until the day's end, after that. The fire would wait for another day, they both knew. They had time.


	7. Sablés and Sweethearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest thanks goes to Michal, or Honorversefan, for the great help in beta-reading and being excellent. Thanks again to Lib and the others for pushing me along in writing this chapter; you're all the best. I'd also like to thank SKFF, for writing such kind and thoughtful reviews in each chapter - they make my day when I read them.
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thanks!

Amongst the sea of his peers, Ernie Macmillan was one of the few people that did not actively search out for Harry and so finding him might have proved a struggle had Harry not possessed the Marauder's Map. Avoiding those who did seek him out was a challenge of course, though given that he had not yet put his cloak to much use that year save for discovering the dragons with Hagrid, it was one that Harry relished all the more.

As it would turn out, Harry found Ernie milling around the castle's kitchens where he often was, much like the other students of his house. It was one of those unwritten rules of the school, it seemed. The Ravenclaws got the roofed quad in the back corner of the castle, the Slytherins the old-staff room in the dungeons, the Gryffindors the high-tower that neighboured their own, and the Hufflepuffs the kitchens.

However, Ernie was alone in the kitchens. Even the scuttling forms of the school's house-elf population were absent, their dots elsewhere on the Marauder's Map, seemingly shooting around at twice the pace of any students. Ernie's, by contrast, was totally still and the moment Harry tickled the pear and let himself in, he came to find why.

"It had to be you, didn't it," Ernie said, immediately upon seeing Harry, his hand gripping onto a spoonful of ice cream. Why on Earth the castle had ice-cream in December of all times, Harry did not know. "I can't live a moment without being harassed."

Harry immediately raised his hands in surrender. "I promise I'm not here to bother you."

"And I bet it wasn't your _intention_ before, but it still happened!" Ernie exclaimed, pausing for a moment to scoop more dessert into his mouth. "Every lunch, I can't go without seeing Justin's stupid face and his stupid _girlfriend_ and I hate it!"

Harry drew a careful breath. "I'm really sorry about that," he said. "I promise I never meant for you to feel this way."

"Oh, and like I can believe _that_ ," Ernie retorted. "Like, with that other Beauxbatons girl?" Aimée, Harry gathered the boy meant. "When you first talked to her and you asked her if she thought I was cute, even though you knew I could hear."

Harry sighed. "I'm sorry about that too," he added. "My life has got a little bit weird for me recently, even for me, and I didn't think you'd be hurt by that."

Especially as, not a week before, Ernie had been one of the most conspicuous wearers of the 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges. Surely, Harry thought, if one were to judge so readily, they should expect to be judged just as quickly.

"Well it hurts," Ernie told him. "To be spoken about like that in front of everyone. It hurts."

The irony was not lost. Unspoken, though not lost.

"You know Justin cheated on me, right?" Ernie then asked of him. "On the last Hogsmeade weekend, he went off to-" He raised his fingers to imitate quotation marks. "-look at stationary. Well, apparently 'stationary' was a Durmstrang boy in the year above." A tear slid down his cheek. "I found them in Honeydukes and Justin didn't even say a word to me. No apology, nothing."

"I'm so sorry, I…" Harry trailed off.

"And you know what the worst of all of it is?" Ernie asked him, stabbing his spoon into the ice-cream, the dessert melted such that it was mostly liquid and so the collision occurred with a squelch. "I share a dorm with him." He sighed. "I share a dorm with him, and so I have to hear him every evening talk about how wonderful his new partner is, and how happy he is with her. I can't even _sleep_ without hearing it!"

He threw the tub of ice-cream to the ground, sending it splattering everywhere.

"I can't sleep without hearing it," Ernie repeated. "I can't go to a lesson without hearing it, I can't eat without hearing it. He gets _rewarded_ by you for being an arsehole. And now you're here, making it all worse."

Ernie sighed. There was a finality to the noise, and soon after he left his chair and kneeled on the ground, pulling out his wand to cast cleaning charms onto the kitchen floor, ridding it of his ice cream and saving the elves from having to do the job.

Harry sighed quietly and joined him in his kneeling. He had no great experience in cleaning charms save for Professor Flitwick's classroom, but he was good at cleaning by hand, so he knew he'd be alright.

Ernie caught him in the corner of his eye. He didn't say a word to him, either to tell him to leave or to stay, the room falling silent save for the mutterings of ' _Evanesco'_ as they continually re-cast the cleaning charm until the floor became as spotless to the eye as the house-elves themselves kept it.

"I meant what I said, you know," Ernie said after they had finished, wiping away a bead of sweat from his forehead. "I'm not sorry for saying it, either."

"I don't expect you to be," Harry said. "You've had a rough time recently."

"You don't have to be so condescending," Ernie said. "I know my fragile heart doesn't compare to you facing a dragon."

"Ernie," Harry announced, his voice drawing the boy's eye toward him. "I'd rather face a hundred dragons than have to go through what you have, and I really, _genuinely_ mean that. I'm sorry that you had to."

Ernie surveyed his face for a moment, before giving him a slight nod. "Sorry," he said. "Not for what I said, but for wearing that badge before. I guess I got swept up in it all."

Harry nodded. "Sorry for getting swept up in the Yule Ball," he replied. "I should've stopped and thought."

"It's okay," Ernie added kindly, before laughing. "Besides, it's Justin. That relationship is bound to blow in his face before too long."

Harry laughed before he could stop himself.

"I didn't really have much to do with him asking Émilie out," Harry said, more in explanation than defence. "He just, sorta, turned up and asked me out." Harry laughed. "Then, when I said no – actually, in the middle of me saying no – he started chatting her up."

"Why am I not surprised," Ernie commented beneath his breath. "He just gets _everything_ he wants."

"I wouldn't say everything," Harry said. "He's never going to be happy in a relationship because he thinks that everyone is like him and so he can't trust them."

"I don't think he's thoughtful enough to care," Ernie muttered.

"Still," Harry argued. "He knows his life is always going to miss something. He knows." Harry sighed. "That's why the way to win the breakup is to be happy with someone else."

Ernie laughed derisively. "That's rubbish," he said immediately. "The best way to win is by _winning_. By getting with someone more attractive; someone better than the person you were with before so that he knows that you can do better." He pointed at Harry sharply. "That's where _you_ come in."

Harry smiled. "Oh yeah?"

"I think we can both agree you owe me a match-making," Ernie explained. Harry laughed. "So, let's get on with it. Match-make away."

Harry laughed all the more, before settling himself with a deep breath. "Would you believe that's why I'm here?"

Ernie gave him a significant look. "Of course I can," he replied. "It's you."

Harry smiled. "Do you want to know who the boy is?"

Ernie shook his head, after a moment. "I'd rather it was a secret," he said. "I think I deserve _some_ romance at the end of all of this."

"Funny you say that," Harry said, bemused. "He said exactly the same thing."

Ernie arose from his knees with a groan and Harry joined him doing so, too.

Ernie folded his arms across his chest. "This isn't me forgiving you yet," he said, though his words lacked their prior fire. "I'll forgive you when I get into my dorms on Christmas night and see Justin sulking, jealous, after his date is obviously not as good as mine."

"Well, I can't promise that," Harry replied. He didn't truly desire for it to happen, either, though he did find himself admiring the spirit of the idea. "But I'll do my best to give you a fun time at the Ball."

Ernie left the room quickly after, though no sooner did the door swing open for his exit, then it swung back open for another's entry.

And, despite the fact that she seemed to hold all aspects of his attention at every moment of his every day, Harry found himself truly surprised by the appearance of Fleur in the castle's kitchens. Not least because, behind her, she had what appeared to be herself in miniature following along.

Fleur, it seemed, was equally astounded by the turning of fate's wheel then, as she let out a shocked gasp at his appearance.

"I had no idea you'd be here," she said, echoing their no-doubt shared thoughts. She glanced down to the girl by her side. "'Arry, this is Gabrielle. My hellion of a little sister."

The girl in question waved shyly, hiding behind Fleur's legs. Harry waved back.

"Nice to meet you, Gabrielle," Harry said, meeting the girl's eyes, before returning to look at Fleur. "I had no idea you knew that _this_ -" He gestured to the kitchen around them. "-existed."

"Well, food has to come from somewhere," Fleur replied. "But it took…intuition to find this kitchen, I must admit."

Harry smirked. "So, you got lost?" he clarified for her. "And, somehow you managed to stumble your way here."

Fleur's cheeks tinted red. "Lost is not true," she said. "How can you ever know if you are lost, anyway?" Her eyes lost contact with his. "How can you be sure that you are not being found?"

Harry coughed, the pair suddenly remembering they had company. Company, who was smiling as she watched their awkward interaction with eyes all too knowing for their comfort.

" _So_ ," he said, levity forced into his voice. "Do you want me to leave so that you have the kitchen to yourself?"

"No!" Gabrielle interjected, before Fleur could speak to answer. "I like him."

Fleur smiled, quietly amused. "Gabi, you've only just met him."

"But I know _you_ like him!" Gabi exclaimed, taking great delight in the red blushing over her sister's skin. Harry stifled a laugh, his chest warming. "And he sounds so funny when he speaks!"

Fleur laughed. Harry sighed.

"Did you tell her to say that?" he asked her.

Fleur shook her head, still laughing. "I did not," she admitted. "But if a child can see it, it can't be denied."

"I'm not a child," Gabi told her sister. "I'm a grown-up; more grown up than you are."

"Of course," Fleur allowed, her eyes then looking to Harry. "If you are staying as she insists, then you can help us make sablés."

"And what are they?" he asked, his once-forlorn expression lost at the thought of what was to come.

Fleur and Gabrielle rolled their eyes in stereo.

"Biscuits, but not just any biscuits. _Special biscuits,_ " Gabrielle explained, her voice holding a truly unfathomable amount of gravitas for a child. She gave Fleur an odd look. "I can't believe you like him."

Fleur reddened again. "He grows on you," she did add. Harry smiled. "Though, it will take some effort to recover from not knowing of sablés."

"Sorry," Harry said, teasing. "We didn't all grow up inside a bakery."

Fleur's eyes shot up to look at him, though they left just as quickly. "You should be sorry," she muttered. "But we have the perfect way for you to get back."

"Which is?"

In one motion, Fleur retrieved her wand and cast the summoning charm toward the eggs, powdered sugar, plain flour, and baking powder.

"Start mixing."

"And we're not to use magic for this, of course," Harry said. That would be much too easy.

"Naturally," Fleur said, smiling at him. "The most important ingredient is love." She and her sister shared a smile, one of inside jokes only they knew of. "Actually, that is the second most important. The first is butter."

From the pocket of her jacket, Fleur then pulled out a great tub of salted butter.

"You brought your own butter?" Harry had to ask.

A mask of intense seriousness fell on Gabrielle's face. "We could not risk it," she told him. "We could not risk tainting the sablés with bad butter."

Harry nodded. "Right," he said, amusedly resigned. "So, mixing?"

"Mixing," Fleur agreed. "You must be careful, but also fearless. Firm, but gentle."

"I feel like we're going to be here a while."

"We will be here as long as we need to," Gabrielle said, sagely.

Harry was not unfamiliar with baking; he'd spent most of the summer between his first and second year in the kitchen of the Burrow with Mrs Weasley learning to bake. Yet, he knew he was completely unprepared for the task at hand.

"So, how come you've decided to visit?" Harry asked Gabrielle, his arm whirling a spoon around the bowl, creaming together the butter and sugar.

"My school has finished for the term," Gabrielle said. "And I could not go a Yule without seeing my sister."

Harry smiled warmly.

"And she wished to see the castle," Fleur said, her eyes watchful over his work. "She is thinking of coming here instead of Beauxbatons. I'm hoping to teach her the error of her ways." She smiled at her sister. "I have her for two days until she goes back to spend the solstice with Mama and Papa."

Gabrielle pouted. "I want to stay here forever!" she exclaimed. "They have snow here!"

"We have snow in Nice," Fleur commented, her voice quiet.

"But not proper snow," Gabrielle told her. "Not enough to make snowmen like here, and not every year." She turned to look at Harry very suddenly. "That is enough."

Harry nodded, and set about separating the egg's yolks from its whites, before slowly adding the yolks to the mixture, his hands carefully mixing the proto-dough under the sisters' mirrored watchful gaze.

"So, are you going home after the Ball?" Harry asked Fleur, after having done his duty to a standard deemed sufficient.

"Perhaps for a day," she replied. "But I need to be here for the tournament."

Harry nodded, though Gabrielle looked at him intensely.

"You're…Harry Potter?" she then asked, surprise soon dawning on her face. "I can't believe I'm baking with Harry Potter." She frowned. "I cannot believe he doesn't know what sablés are."

"Sorry," he said, amused. The fact that Gabrielle had been too excited by the prospect of pastry to even so much as glance at his scar was refreshing, at the very least. "Too busy beating your sister in the tournament to learn about them."

Gabrielle smiled, taking the bowl quickly from her sister, before face turned serious again. "Now, the hard part."

Harry looked to Fleur. "You're not doing the hard part?"

"I'm only here to watch," she told him. She nodded toward Gabrielle. "She is the master."

Fleur's words were no exaggeration, either. In a whirlwind, the mixture was soon formed into its most perfect form, the flour and baking powder sifted expertly and mixed in until the dough, at last, began to come together.

In a matter of moments, Gabrielle then rolled out the dough flat, cutting them out into biscuits and placed them onto a baking tray. They were in the oven only seconds after that, the sisters working in tandem wonderfully.

"They will take fifteen minutes," Gabrielle said, her words exact. Before turning toward Harry. "So, what was it like?"

Harry offered her a baffled expression.

"You may have to be more specific, Gabi," Fleur said, watching him.

"When you battled back a hundred dementors, of course!" Gabrielle said, her eyes wide. "Was it scary?" She gasped. "You cast a Patronus too, didn't you?"

"How do you know about that?" Harry asked.

"It was in Mama's paper," Fleur said. "Your ministry did not look good after that."

Harry didn't doubt that.

"It was scary, yeah," he told Gabrielle, her eyes still so wide. "But I knew I could do it."

"Wow," Gabrielle said, in awe. "Can I see your Patronus?"

"It is a personal thing," Fleur chastised. She gave Harry a soft look. "You don't have to If you don't want to."

Harry, though, found himself really wanting to. Enough to pull out his wand, and with a clear voice, cast. " _Expecto Patronum_."

A stag soon filled the room, formed of light and love and magic. He pranced upon the surfaces, playing amongst the spilled flour and sugar. Harry smiled at the sight, just as Fleur and Gabrielle did too. The deer circled around Gabi in particular, taking great delight in causing her to laugh as they played together.

When the magic had run its course and Gabrielle looked to him in hope, Harry happily cast the spell anew so that she could play with her newest friend again, the joy at seeing Prongs and Gabrielle's infectious wonder ridding him of any exertion he might well have felt otherwise at such a feat.

It was only when the fifteen minutes were up, and the sablés ready, did Gabrielle begrudgingly cut her time with the patronus short. And, though little could compare to the joy of a fully realised patronus, the scent of freshly baked sablés came mightily close.

"Now you understand," Fleur said, with an air of victory to her voice, as she took responsibility of handling the oven-hot confectionery. "They are special, aren't they?"

"Definitely," Harry agreed.

Though he had not realised it at first, upon review, the three of them had baked enough to feed the whole of Gryffindor house and have enough left over for Hagrid. Harry thought he could survive on sablés alone for a month if he wished to, and he certainly wished to.

The second he'd taken a bite of the biscuit; he knew he'd cast a thousand patronuses if it meant he got to taste their sablés every day. He could not do anything _but_ taste them, they were that good. For a moment, they robbed him of all of his focus except to their taste.

"If you think they are good, you should try Papa's," Fleur said, watching him fall into bliss and not from there herself. "They are heavenly."

"These taste that good," Harry replied.

Fleur met his eyes. "They are better, I promise you."

Begrudgingly, they did then stop eating to pack up their efforts. All in all, there were a hundred biscuits by the end of their _extensive_ taste-testing.

"Perhaps, I should take a few dozen of them, then," Harry said, surveying over them. "Just to make sure."

"You do not know what you are making sure of," Fleur said. "They should go to our more expert palates."

"But how can mine grow any better without proper training?" Harry asked. "40."

Gabrielle's face turned into a hard mask; all jubilance forgotten. Her arms folded. "10."

Harry gasped, offended. "45."

"12."

"35."

"18."

"30."

"22."

"25."

"25."

Harry smiled. "Deal."

Gabrielle smiled back. "Deal."

Fleur rolled her eyes at the pair of them. "Deal," she said. "Now, let's get these packed away before someone catches the smell and tries to steal them."

There was something in Fleur's tone that caught Harry by surprise. "You are being serious?" he asked. "Has that happened before?"

Fleur smirked at him. "You really don't know what you're getting in for," she said. For a moment, Harry was sure their thoughts met over thoughts of bakeries and over-indulgence.

After all was squared away, and the room cleaned in no-time thanks to the expert touch of Fleur's wand, Gabrielle soon whisked Fleur out of the kitchen, longing to see yet more of the ancient castle.

"Nice to meet you, Harry!" she exclaimed upon leaving. "Hope to see you soon!"

Harry did too.

Fleur was slower in her exit. "Thank you," she whispered to him, wrapping her arms around him in a brief embrace. Harry's skin warmed. "For being so understanding."

"There's nothing to understand," he told her, leaning into her touch for a tiny moment. "Have fun with your sister."

Fleur looked to him fondly, only inches apart. "You still find ways of surprising me," she said, before turning to look at her expectant sister. "When she goes tomorrow, do you want to go through the stuff with the fire?"

It took Harry a moment to realise what she'd said, his head cloudy with her closeness and the taste of her confectionery. "Of course," he said. "I can't wait."

"Nor can I," Fleur whispered, before leaving his touch to catch up to her sister, throwing looks over her shoulder to him until she disappeared from the corridor, fully out of sight.

Harry lingered in the kitchen a while longer. It'd been a while since he'd seen Dobby, after all.

….

As it would turn out, the magnetic pull of the sablés was not at all exaggerated, either.

No sooner did Harry reveal them to the open air of his dormitory, than Ron appeared out of thin air, and Harry thought that rather literally, too. He went from nothing, to by his side, in an instant.

"What've you got there?" Ron inquired, leaning over Harry's shoulder to get a look.

"Hello to you too, mate," Harry replied, staring blankly at his best mate.

"Yeah, hello, sure," Ron said, his hand waving away the pleasantries. "So, what are they?"

"You wouldn't like them," Harry told him, dismissively.

"I beg to differ," Ron said. "Quite frankly, I don't think I've ever liked anything more than I do those right now, and I haven't even had one yet."

"You can't know that," Harry said, pulling the sablés toward him protectively.

"Then allow me to prove it," Ron replied. "Please?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Sure," he said. "But only one."

Ron swiped one the second Harry stopped speaking, his hands moving at a nearly unnatural pace to do so. Rather predictably, he loved them too.

"You've gotta teach me how to make those," Ron said, in a gushing voice. "This can't be the only day I eat those. I can't go without them for the rest of my life, I just can't."

"Wonder how your date will feel knowing you've got a new love."

Ron's demeanour cooled, but only fractionally. "He'd understand."

Time seemed to move in slow motion for Ron, then. His eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing yet with no sound coming out.

"Oh God," he whispered. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."

"It's really okay," Harry told him. "I promise it's not that big a deal."

Ron took a moment to hear the words properly. "R-really?"

"Of course," Harry said. "You're my best mate; nothing's ever going to change that."

Ron was silent once more, scarcely breathing.

"Really?" he asked again.

"Of course," Harry said.

Ron heaved a heavy sigh. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, the tension bleeding away. "I'd worried about that for ages!" He sighed again. "I even got Hermione to research how to talk about that sort of thing."

"I'm glad you don't have to worry about that anymore," Harry replied, before stopping. "Wait." He looked at Ron inquisitively. "Is that why you spent so much time away from me these past few weeks?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah."

"Well thank Merlin that's over," Harry said. "I've missed you way too much for that to happen again."

Ron grinned. "Sorry the biggest realisation in my life was such an inconvenience to you."

"Sorry," Harry said instinctively, only to see the grin on his face. "So does that mean I get to find out who the unlucky bloke taking you is?"

"Still no," Ron said. "A man's got to have some mystery."

"Really?" Harry asked. "Fine. You don't get to know who I want to take either."

Ron stared at him, bemused, the prior tension forgotten. "It's Fleur Delacour."

Harry sighed. Ron gave a chuckle at the sound.

"Thanks for not making a big deal of it," Ron said, uneasy again, with no doubt over what 'it' was.

"You didn't seem to want me to," Harry replied.

Ron shook his head. "I didn't," he said, before coughing awkwardly. "Still, thanks."

Harry allowed the silence to grow, for all of a moment or so. "Can I ask a few questions?" Harry asked. Ron nodded. "When did you know?"

Ron fell back onto his bed. Wordlessly, Harry passed him the full package of Sables.

"I don't know," Ron said, already digging into a biscuit. "I guess last year?"

Harry smiled, growing comfortable in his own bed, pulling his duvet toward him and wrapping it around himself. "Can I ask who it was?"

"Oliver Wood," Ron blurted out, before his mouth could even think of catching up to his brain. "Bloody hell."

Harry found himself happy at his friend's newfound openness. "Because he could play Quidditch?"

"Because he was amazing at Quidditch," Ron corrected, before he hid his face behind his bed covers. "And he had nice eyes."

Harry smiled, relieved for reasons he'd not even thought to know until just then. "Have you told your Mum?"

"She was the first one I told," Ron told him. "Well, her and Dad."

"How did she take it?"

"Mum spent the night changing her wedding plans so that the cakes would be groom and groom," Ron explained, with a shrug. "That's about it."

"Your Dad?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged again. "Said he's looking forward to that wedding as he always wanted seven sons," he told Harry, before he paused. He added then, in a quieter voice. "Well, eight with you."

Harry grinned brightly.

"I'm really happy for you, mate."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, staring into the room's roof as though it opened to the sky. "Yeah, I am too."

The world, it seemed, was not growing brighter for only he and Fleur, but for Ron too.

"Are you still going to tell me who you're taking?"

"Not a chance."

…

Unlike the last time Harry entered the Forbidden Forest behind Hagrid, he found himself without the need for his cloak and, perhaps most significantly, not on a journey toward a dragon.

"They're just up here!" Hagrid called out over his shoulder, his steps bounding quickly toward their destination.

'They' were the skrewts who, in the time since Harry had last seen them, had grown beyond even Harry's most careful expectations to a size so great they could not be safely housed anywhere near the castle. Either by bargaining or by kindness Harry was not sure, one of the handlers from the first task had bequeathed Hagrid one of the dragon's enclosures still bearing its fire-proof enchantments and all. Though, upon reflection, with his own newfound abilities, neither of them were likely to need it then.

"Quite sweet, aren't they," Hagrid commented, his eyes growing misty at the sight of his creations.

Harry did not know if it was his own mind growing deluded or a change in his heart, but he found himself agreeing with Hagrid then. Away from the outside influence of loud and thoughtless students, the skrewts truly were far friendlier, even to one another. There was not the fighting for food that had been rampant before; they even seemed to wrestle playfully with one another, the victor shooting a gout of flame after pinning the other.

"So," Hagrid said, stepping into the enclosure without a worry. Harry followed him in. "What did you manage to find out?"

"She loves Charms," Harry began. "She's really passionate about her subject."

"Like I am?" Hagrid sought to clarify, his great hand sweeping across the forest floor.

"Exactly," Harry agreed. "She loves to talk about Charms, and I'm sure if you ask her about Charms to use to take care of these skrewts, you'll be there all night."

Hagrid beamed at him. "Thank you, Harry," he gushed. "Much else?"

Harry took a breath, to settle himself.

"Yeah, there is," he said, his voice uneven. "She doesn't like to talk about her…. heritage."

"Heritage?" Hagrid asked.

"That she's a half-giant," Harry then said, watching Hagrid's face, expectantly. "People haven't been too nice to her about it."

"I understand that, of course," Hagrid said, strangely distracted, his eyes trained a group of the skrewts though Harry doubted he truly saw anything. "So, nothing?"

"Best to only mention it if she does first, I think," Harry said. "That's what I could gather, anyway."

Hagrid nodded, though confusion still covered his face. He threw meat to the creatures at his feet and Harry did too, waiting for the groundskeeper to speak.

"But she knows I am too, right?" Hagrid asked, after a time.

"She does, yeah," Harry answered.

Realisation finally did dawn, then. "Okay. _Okay_ ," Hagrid said, mostly to himself, before sending Harry a blinding smile. "Seems good to me."

One of the larger skrewts yanked at Harry's trousers then, its pincer grabbing hold of the denim of his jeans not letting go. Harry smiled down to it, throwing it a big piece of meat which the creature chomped on gratefully.

And, for the first time, when the skrewt blasted its fire toward him, Harry did not jump away, but stood his ground without an ounce of fear.

The fire met his skin, warmed it, and disappeared as quickly as it had come. Below him, the skrewt responsible let out a chirp Harry hadn't known they were capable of.

In dim realisation, Harry came to learn then that they had been playing with him the entire time. He'd just never known it. With a mutter, Harry cast the fire-spell and played the game right back, skrewt and human meeting in pyrotechnic harmony.

The spectacle brought others of the creature's kind over until Harry had a small legion of them playing with him. Without Fawkes, he'd have hardly lasted a moment, though he was not without Fawkes, and likely never would be again.

"You're really getting the hang of this," Hagrid said, standing above Harry.

"Just took some practice is all," Harry replied, a smile unknowingly upon his face.

Hagrid's feet shuffled noisily, behind him. "Can I tell you something Harry?" he asked.

The shock of Hagrid having to ask such a question brought Harry's attention right back to his oldest friend.

"Go on," Harry said.

"With how this year started, I was a little bit worried for you," Hagrid admitted. "With that mess at the Quidditch, and the tournament and all, I got scared." Hagrid gave off a booming laugh, the noise rumbling through the earth and Harry's chest, warming both. "But, as I see you now, I should've known I had nothing to fear. You're really growing into the man I think your Mum and Dad would want you to be and I know they're proud of you up there."

It was an hour before Harry could speak properly again, his voice lost amongst his heart's swelling feelings.

…

The winter solstice was, by definition, the shortest day of the year. The day where darkness stretched longest and light shortest. Yet, as Harry approached Fleur's carriage door, there seemed to be a great deal of light then, even as the sky had ushered the night upon them barely moments after the middle of the day.

Fleur held no pretence of waiting for the sound of his knock, as the moment he approached the threshold, the door swung open expectantly to reveal her wearing his Quidditch jersey again.

He smiled at the sight, smiling more at her familiar hurry to keep the heat in. Fleur's eyes followed his and then she smiled too.

"How do I look?" Fleur asked, quietly, turning where she stood.

"Beautiful," Harry said, breathlessly and not for the cold. Not one bit.

Fleur looked at him, her cheeks dusted red. "Really?"

Harry swallowed, taking a step toward her before he knew what he'd even realised. "Yeah," he whispered. He sighed, suddenly. "So…"

Fleur sighed too. "So," she echoed, the tension easing slightly. "The fire?"

"The fire," Harry agreed. "Have you found anything out?"

Fleur shook her head, the action jerky. "Not at all," she said. "I've been a little distracted with Gabrielle, though even so I have still not found anything."

"Nor have I," Harry added. Admittedly, his inquiry had been a solitary letter to Dumbledore asking for his opinion. He'd written back to say he'd never heard of such an anomaly, though if something came of it, he wished for Fawkes to get the proper accreditation in the resulting academic papers.

Fleur took a step back, turning to look at a book splayed open on her desk.

"I have, however, found something that might help you channel flame like I can," she explained, holding out the book and offering for Harry to read. "Most Veela, even partial-ones such as myself, can innately control flame. Yet, some cannot, and that is not because they _cannot_ control the fire, but because they must be taught."

The book that Harry held, therefore, was a manual on such a practise.

"The process is quite direct," Fleur continued. "I will conjure my flame and you will place your hand into it once more except this time, instead of just feeling it, you will attempt to control it yourself." Fleur sighed. "Though I doubt the firebird has made a Veela of you, I think the idea holds merit."

"Maybe the vision happens again, too. Who knows," Harry said. Fleur nodded in recognition. "Should we really do this here?" Harry pointed to the wooden cupboards and wardrobes. "Isn't everything a touch too flammable for that?"

Fleur shook her head. "My carriage is fire-resistant."

Harry grinned brightly. " _Allez_."

Though he'd seen her conjure flames before, the act did not grow any less impressive in repetition, nor did the heat the fire exuded diminish whatsoever. Yet, what Harry found most striking of all was the way the light shone upon the graceful edges of Fleur's face. She looked sharper then, under her own illumination, and yet all the warmer too.

Harry did not believe a single more wonderful sight existed. She was _everything_ in that moment. She was art, she was beauty. She was a wonder beyond anything he could begin to ever know.

"Are you ready?" Fleur asked.

Harry met her eyes, his own eyes striking as he did. "I am."

Fleur nodded, and Harry brought himself into her fire again. There was no vision as he did, yet there was something different to the experience. Before, beyond the warmth, he'd not felt much of anything except the wonder as his gift had revealed itself.

Yet then, the fire seemed to welcome him into its embrace.

A blanket in the winter, a flame burning away the cold. Harry's eyes dipped closed for a moment to take it in.

"Your turn," Fleur said, as Harry opened his eyes. Harry nodded and set about attempting, not for the first time, something he had no clue of how to do.

The flame was not inert, Harry immediately learned. There was life amongst its dancing and its flickering. The moment he even thought to push against it with any of his own power, as though he were casting a shield charm, the fire forced him away without delay.

Yet, it did not feel as though he was attempting wandless magic. Harry had tried that, of course – every wizard had, hoping they were Dumbledore and soon finding out they were not – but in those instances, there seemed to be chasm between him and his magic. The gap was possible to cross, the feat possible, but one that required greater fortitude than he could gather.

Here though, with Fleur's hand in his and the fire upon his skin, all it would require was a jump.

Harry looked into Fleur's eyes. And _jumped_.

And, the fire that once was Fleur's, was then theirs. Fleur's eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened, they looked distant. Then, the fire was his and his alone.

Immediately, Harry knew that he was not a Veela, as to sustain it took a great amount of focus. The moment he looked into Fleur's eyes, curious at the sudden change in her, the fire had snuffed itself out.

"I saw… _you_ ," Fleur told him, upon feeling his gaze upon her. "I think I saw the same vision that you did, before."

"Really?"

Fleur nodded, slightly shakily. "The flame had captured you totally," she whispered, her voice lighter than air. She blinked, the focus returning to her eyes. "I take it you had some success?"

"Definitely," Harry said, with a grin. "Though I think I'm going to need your help to try again." He sighed wearily. "It was exhausting just holding onto it for as shortly as I did."

Fleur sat down on the edge of her bed. "It gets easier, in time," she said. She looked up to him, before patting the space beside her, inviting him to take it; an offer he took on at once. "Though I think I'll break before we try again."

"Later then," Harry said, their knees brushing together.

"Later," Fleur agreed.

They shared a laugh.

"So how was it with Gabrielle?" Harry asked after they'd settled. "You two seemed really close."

"We are," Fleur agreed, a smile coming to her easily. "She makes my life more enjoyable."

"Her baking definitely does," Harry said, earning a laugh. "But, yeah. You seemed a lot more carefree around her."

Harry worried that he'd said too much once more, though Fleur did not guard her face at his words.

"That's how I want her life to be," Fleur told him. "She shouldn't need to live her life worrying about other people. Like-" Fleur stopped. She let out a sigh. "Like I have."

Harry took her hand into his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The act was more as natural to him, to them, as breathing.

"What do you worry about, Fleur?" Harry asked, his voice soft.

Fleur met his eyes, and Harry awaited the sound of 'secrets' to meet his ears, yet it did not.

"That my sister might have to grow into a world that does not love her as it should because of their horrid prejudice," Fleur said. "That all of the work my parents have put forward, to get me to Beauxbatons and to allow me to succeed, will be for nothing if I do not win this ridiculous tournament."

Harry could not look away from her, his eyes wide.

Sensing his confusion, she clarified. "Beauxbatons is not like Hogwarts. It is _exclusive_ ," she told him, and the word became _expensive_ to his ears immediately. "My peers are not the sons and daughters of bakers, but politicians and diplomats." She paused. "Aimée's father does not even know the price of a loaf of bread." Fleur's eyes closed for a moment. "Yet, it is the best school in all of France, and one of the few in Europe that, thanks to Madame Maxime, would accept a Veela like me."

Harry's touch remained constant upon her. "I'm so sorry, Fleur."

She shook her head. "When I was younger, I did not know any of this of course, so I prioritised other things. Like dance, like _Aimée_ ," Fleur said. "Then, over the summer when I was fourteen, I came to see just how hard Mama and Papa worked; how much they sacrificed for me. I knew that I could not act as I had any more."

"So, you pushed other things away," Harry said, his voice utterly understanding.

"And so, I pushed other things away," Fleur echoed, before meeting his eyes. "You asked me what my dreams are, 'Arry?" Harry nodded. "My dream has remained the same all time since then. For Gabrielle to not have to live like me. I need to change the world so that her, and her children, can be as happy as they deserve to be."

Silence fell after Fleur's words. Harry could feel the conflict within her. Her shoulders lighter at a burden shared, her heart racing.

"I know you will," Harry said. His words did not feel like they were enough; they could not possibly be. Yet, with her hand in hers, and their eyes not once leaving each other, he knew it was as much as he could give, and he would always give that gladly. "You are the most amazing person I've ever met."

Her world did shift at his words; the pain did not disappear. Yet, the world became a fraction brighter, the weight a fraction lighter. He did not give her strength but supported the strength she already had.

And that, that was enough.

Fleur brought herself only inches away from Harry, their eyes not leaving one another. "I never thought I'd be able to tell another person that," she whispered. For a moment, her eyes dropped to Harry's lips, his breathing growing uneven. "Thank you, for being you."

"I hope one day you tell me everything," Harry said, his own eyes dropping to look at the fullness of her lips.

Their eyes met, and then dipped closed as they crossed the distance. She kissed him, and he kissed her. Her lips soft against his, overwhelming him. His, in turn, taking hers.

He could feel nothing other than Fleur in that moment. Her hand upon his jaw, her fingers gently running through his hair, the wonderful warmth of her touch.

The sensation was beyond anything Harry had ever known. He wanted to live within it forever.

She smiled against his lips, then, separating only that she could speak, their eyes still closed, too lost in one-another for anything else.

"One day, 'Arry," Fleur said, and his name on her lips felt like a kiss of its own. "You will."

They opened their eyes at the same moment, each holding adoration as they looked to each other's eyes.

Yet, as they did view the world in their new, changed eyes, they found a great deal more than just each other. Both, in the time in-between, had been completely wreathed in flame.

Just as his vision had suggested. Just as hers had suggested, too. They both couldn't help but laugh.

"I don't think this is going to get either of us a mastery, somehow," Harry said. "Do you think this is going to happen every time we kiss?"

Fleur's hand returned to his hair, guiding him gently toward her. "Would you like to find out?"

It didn't, they found out. They were very, very thorough in their testing, too. Hours and hours spent breathless and intertwined, kissing and laughing and being happy.

Harry couldn't recall ever being happier.

"Fleur Delacour," Harry managed to say, in one of the rare moments their lips found themselves separated. "Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?"

"Do we have to go?" she asked, smiling at him. "Can't we just do something _else_ instead?"

"Yes, we do need to go," Harry replied, as much as it pained him to do so. He'd been right all along, he realised then. There was nothing better being alone with the one you adored. _Nothing_. "I got almost every other couple together; it'd be rude not to."

Fleur smiled. Her smile was like an event of its own. Something to watch for, something to celebrate.

"Yes, then," she said. "If we have to." She pointed at him mock-sternly. "But, with one condition."

Harry smiled.

"Yes?"

"You are going to dance with me while we're there," Fleur said, grinning. "Really _dancing_ , too."

Harry couldn't think of a better way to spend the time than in Fleur's arms.


	8. Gifts and Giving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, the biggest thank you to Michal, or Honorversefan, for the wonderful assistance in editing and beta-reading. I'd never have written this without him, and I urge you all to check his writing out as it's great.
> 
> Thank you to the Flowerpot discord, for the great inspiration and community. You're all the best.

Christmas morning, for Harry, began under the warm glow of the fire in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. Dean had mentioned that his family held a tradition every year of sleeping beside the chimney so that they could catch Father Christmas when he arrived. So, each of the fourth year Gryffindors found themselves with sore necks and wide smiles.

Father Christmas had not visited, as far as Harry could tell, though the House Elves had, as the base of the Christmas tree was covered in their presents. With the increase in numbers that stayed at the castle, each dormitory had each been given a tree, though Harry had asked Dobby to put theirs underneath the grand one in the centre of the common room.

So Harry, for the first time in his life, experienced a Christmas morning surrounded by his family. Ron was the most excitable by far, and true to form, Christmas proved to be the one day of the year he woke up without duress. He first aimed himself toward the soft lump of his annual Weasley jumper and threw it on, before commencing at the task in hand.

Harry soon followed, his own steps slightly laboured, and wrapped himself up in Mrs Weasley's knitwear. The gift was a relief more than anything as it became one of the few warm items of clothing that he still possessed, though he doubted that he would have it for very long. Fleur had taken last year's; he had thought she might not, given it was emblazoned with _his_ initials, yet she was utterly undeterred.

"Merry Christmas," were Harry's first, croaky words of the day. He soon found his own gifts pile. To his surprise, he found that the pile was larger than it had been in any previous years.

"Mornin'," Ron said. Despite his hurry, he waited until Harry had sat down beside him before tearing into the wrapping paper of his first present. "Let's get on with it, then."

Most of Harry's gifts, as Harry came to realise with an amused grin, were from the couples he'd helped set up. Kind little things, really. Chocolates and cards, often from countries he'd never been to, in the case of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students. Others, that knew him slightly better, like Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, gave him butterbeer for, as they put it, 'kicking Fred and George's arse into gear'.

The only couple that he had a hand in getting together that did _not_ come with a gift was his own, as he and Fleur had decided to give one another gifts when they met up later in the day.

Of his friend's gifts, he opened Hermione's gift first, noticeable as it was the one of the few whose shape was bookish or book-adjacent. He unfolded her perfectly wrapped present, rather than tore into it, to find it was not in fact a book but rather a journal. When he opened the first page, he found she'd inscribed a message for him. It read:

_Merry Christmas, Harry_

_I hope you have a wonderful time at the Yule Ball with Fleur who I_ _do_ _know you've asked, by the way. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time and I can't wait to see you again._

_Thank you for your gift; it meant the world to me. I can't believe you managed to get me a library card to the Library of Alexandria. Honestly, I can't even begin to imagine how hard that must have been, so I'll just say thank you again._

_With love,_

_Hermione_

_P.s. There are 7 always-inked quills in your dresser's top drawer so that you never have to steal mine again._

Harry wore a grin by the time he'd finished reading. He couldn't wait to see his best friend again. The library card hadn't cost anything but money, and what good was money if not for making the ones you loved happy?

He quickly wrote Hermione a response back, on how much he missed her, and how he couldn't wait for her to get back, with the intent to visit Hedwig at the first moment he'd find himself able to walk out of the warmth of the common room.

Soon after, Ron tore into Harry's present. The sight of its contents brought a confused look upon his face for a moment, which matched Harry's expectations given that the gift was a Chudley Cannons scarf.

"You know I've got quite a few of these, mate," Ron said, looking at Harry strangely.

Harry nodded; the room they'd both shared over the summers had been filled with them. "Not like that one, you haven't," he said. "That's a season ticket scarf."

Rather than the paper tickets that muggle teams preferred, upon buying season tickets Quidditch teams gave their fans a scarf holding a magical signature that allowed them into the team's stadiums and through their wards.

Ron's hands grew delicate as he gripped the scarf. "You shouldn't have," he said, his eyes holding disbelief.

"I know," Harry said, mock-beleaguered. "I know there's a quite a few games you'll miss while we're here, but I spoke with Professor McGonagall and she said that you'll be able to floo into the Cannons stadiums on weekends so long as you don't have detention."

"I didn't mean that," Ron clarified. "It's too much…"

As Ron trailed off, Harry's only thought was that it was not nearly enough. He sighed.

"I wanted to give it to you," Harry said, stubbornly. "Do you want to go to see the Cannons?"

"Well, of course but-"

"-then it's settled," interrupted Harry. Ron rolled his eyes. "They're playing the day after Boxing Day."

Ron sighed, though he did so with a small smile. "I know," he told Harry. His eyes were fixed on the scarf in his hands. "I can't believe it." He did look up to Harry, for the briefest of seconds. "Thanks mate."

Harry smiled. "Tap it with your wand," he said, then.

With an amused smile, Ron did as he asked and the second he did so, the scarf changed from the fluorescent orange of the club's crest to the colours of the rainbow. The change brought about a similar transformation on Ron's face, going from pale white to bright red.

"Took a bit of work and a letter to the Cannon's ticket office," Harry explained. He was rather proud of it, in truth, as he'd written the runes for the enchantments of the scarf himself, though only after very thorough checking to ensure that his own handiwork wouldn't alter the pre-existing enchantments. Harry met Ron's eyes. "I'm proud of you, mate."

Ron didn't meet his eyes after he'd spoken, his face still hot.

"Thanks," he did manage to say, though.

Content with his work, Harry returned to his own presents. Seeing it fitting, he opened Ron's next and found that it was his own turn to become bright red.

To his surprise, Ron too had given him a book, albeit disguised under mounds of wrapping paper and fluff; it was 'The Runes of Ancient Egypt'.

"You left out some of your homework one night," Ron explained. Harry coughed, slightly uncomfortable. "I know you didn't want anyone to know, but I thought you'd want something like that, so I asked Bill if he had anything you'd be interested in."

It took a moment, but Harry did grin then. "Thanks mate."

Ron laughed all of a sudden, the sound easing the odd tension. "Thank Merlin this is only one day a year," he said. "I don't think I could handle this if it happened any more often than it did."

Harry laughed, before tearing into his next present. It was Dumbledore's, he soon found out. A wand-holster impressed on which was the image of a phoenix, and with a letter attached.

_Merry Christmas Harry,_

_I do hope this letter finds you well._

_Enclosed to you is a wand-holster of my own recent creation. Beyond the normal, practical features of such an item, this particular example holds within it a feather from my companion, Fawkes. That feather has not seen the brightest of days in its time since separating from my familiar's body. It is my hope that, with you, it will see brighter days once more. The shared origins that it holds with the core of your own wand may even, perhaps, provide some greater control in your magic, though that is entirely speculation._

_Fawkes also has a gift for you. He would like you to know that at one point in the future, should you require his services, be they as transport or company, he is at your command. All that you must do is call his name, and he will come._

_The gladdest of tidings to you, for this year and many more to come._

_Best Wishes,_

_APWBD_

Hagrid's was next. Harry's first friend had very kindly given a book on the care and grooming of snowy owls, for which he found himself most grateful.

The final gift Harry opened was from Sirius. They had exchanged letters daily in the build-up to Christmas, mostly concerning Sirius' trial. Dumbledore had kept him very busy in their preparation, so how he'd managed to find the time to buy Harry a gift, he did not know.

Or two gifts, as it would turn out. The first was a pair of cufflinks that Harry immediately knew he'd be wearing in the evening. The second was a door key upon which a message had been inscribed. _For the future_ , it read.

That key wouldn't leave his hands for some time.

* * *

Christmas dinner was a grand affair, with most of the school's students remaining. The Professors had made it more than clear that food would be served at the Ball, yet that did not seem to blunt the collective appetite at all. The afternoon passed in the blurred bliss of their indulgence with what seemed like half of the castle spending the time napping off their meals in the common rooms.

Yet, it was with giddy excitement that they all arose. As the sky took to darkening and the lights that adorned the castle walls twinkled all the brighter, the ball-goers fell off to get showered and get dressed.

A consortium of hair-care products was launched in Harry's general direction as he did the same, though all seemed to fall far short of the task at hand. Even his own family's creation, the Sleekeazy's potion, could not muster the strength to tussle with his tangles and come out the winner.

In the end, Harry waved them all off and left his hair as nature intended. He found that he rather liked the wild look he wore, and Fleur certainly had no problems with it, if her hands wandering into it and making it look all the wilder were any indication.

And so, armed only with Fleur's gift, his wand, and his wits, Harry began the walk through Scotland's snows to the Beauxbatons' carriages. The Yule Ball wouldn't start for a long while, though neither he nor Fleur wished to be away from each other for any longer than they had already been.

Neville was beside him on this perilous journey of a hundred or so yards, though that time allowed Harry to truly reflect on the change that had been brought about in Neville. The other boy looked to have grown half a foot in half a month, his voice louder and carrying further.

"How're you feeling?" Harry found himself asking.

Neville shrugged, nonchalant. "I reckon it'll be a fun night," he said, calmly. "Though I don't have to dance in front of everyone like you." Neville shot him an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

Harry laughed. "I don't really care," he said, and what was most odd was that he believed himself, too. "Besides, I've heard pretty nearly everyone there's sappiest thoughts and feelings, so their judgement doesn't quite hold the weight I thought it might." He laughed again. "It's just a fun night with your friends, in the end."

"Friends and _Aimée_ ," Neville said, the name holding reverence. He stood still for a moment in spite of the cold. "I really can't believe I get to go out with someone as amazing as her."

Harry grinned. "That good?"

Neville nodded, his eyes closing briefly. "The best," he said. "The world just seems a lot better whenever she's with me."

"I know the feeling," Harry replied. They shared a wonderfully lovesick grin, before walking the rest of the way to the carriages.

There had been a sense of foreboding about this night before for Harry. Before _Fleur_ , before every activity became not a chore but an event because she was there too.

"So," Neville said, his Yorkshire accent coming through to form the 'o' of the word into a long 'u'. He turned to stare straight at Harry. "How do I look?"

Harry adjusted the other boy's tie and straightened his lapels.

"Perfect," Harry said. "How do I look?"

Neville did the same.

"Perfect," Neville replied. "Apart from the hair, obviously."

Harry rolled his eyes and waved Neville goodbye as their path forked. He thought to wish him luck, though Harry knew that Neville did not need it.

Even on that day, strange as it was, Harry did not even have to knock on Fleur's door to be allowed into the great warmth of her carriage. He found himself smiling at her haste to keep the heat in, though more so that she soon wrapped herself around him, her hands falling into the thickness of his hair.

Harry only had a moment's glance to see how she looked then, though it was the finest moment he could've had. She looked utterly sublime. Her dress, her hair, _her_.

"I really doubt I'm all that warm," Harry said, though he pulled her tightly to him too. Perhaps they should've offered some deference to the creases that would no doubt form either on his dress robes or her dress, but they truly could not have cared less. "I've been outside."

"It is the fire in you," Fleur said, her words muffled on his skin. "It keeps you warm."

Harry thought Fleur did that job perfectly.

"Are you excited for tonight?" Harry asked. "Ready to watch me fall flat on my face?"

"I'm still not so sure we have to go at all."

"You really want to miss out on seeing Madame Maxime and Hagrid together?" Harry asked.

Fleur sighed. "Of course not," she said. "But I have no doubt that they'll be together until we're old and grey. Today is only the first of many nights for them."

"But it is the first," Harry replied.

"It is the first," Fleur agreed. Only then did she take a step away from holding him; the smallest amount of distance that still allowed her to look at him properly. "So, would you like to get your gift?"

For a moment, Harry was caught mesmerised by Fleur's eyes. Then, he grinned brightly. "Of course," he said, before adding. "What did Dumbledore get for you?"

Fleur turned to her bureau and retrieved a silver ring. "This," she said. "It holds the same enchantment that Beauxbatons itself holds."

"So, when you wear that, your-"

"-my Veela abilities are totally nullified," Fleur finished, giddy at the prospect. "So, on days that I do not wish to have to suffer the reactions of the others, I have this."

She slipped it onto her index finger. To Harry's eyes, absolutely nothing changed, though he found himself smiling at her joy.

Harry held out his own gift for Fleur to take.

They had both decided, for both of their peace of minds, that neither were to spend money beyond three galleons on the other. So, their gifts would be mostly of their own creation.

Fleur let out a soft gasp the moment that she saw what it was.

"Thank you, 'Arry," she said, leaning in to press her lips against his cheek.

He'd gotten her a necklace; the pendant upon which a Fleur-de-lis was placed. He'd placed a minor enchantment on it too, so that it would be forever warm to the touch.

Fleur gave him his own gift then. "Great minds think alike, it seems," she said, as she passed it to him.

Harry opened the box and found out why.

Fleur had gotten him a necklace of his own. It was an elegant design, a silver band that, at its central piece, was shaped into antlers like that of his patronus.

Harry brought her toward him again, sweeping her into his arms and lifting her from the ground. "I love it," he said, against her hair.

"Do you want to put it on me?" Fleur asked, with a coy smile. Harry nodded immediately, following her to her mirror so that he could see what he was doing.

By some miracle, the silver of her necklace paired with her dress perfectly. She had already styled her hair into a braided chignon so that the elegant sweep of her neck was exposed to him. Despite how clumsy his hands felt in front of her, he did manage to fasten the clasp, albeit after two or three attempts.

He took a hundred moments to enjoy how wonderful she looked after that, his smile ever-present, his joy evergreen. She was a wonder beyond words.

"We will be late to the ball if you do not move soon," Fleur teased, her grin forming as she watched him watch her. It was not true, of course. Harry could've spent hours looking at her as he did then. It wouldn't have been enough; not even close to enough. But he could have.

Harry groaned, his face coming to rest against her shoulder blade, his lips pressing a light kiss to the back of her neck and earning a sigh. "Are you sure we have to go to this?"

"Do you really want to miss seeing Maxime and Hagrid?" Fleur asked, her voice holding a laugh. "Not so funny to be the one hearing it and not saying it, is it?"

He kissed her cheek, her skin warmth against him. His arms wrapped around her waist. "If I agree, does that mean we can just stay here for the rest of the day?"

She turned in his arms to meet his eyes. "No," she said, softly. "But we have now, and we have the time after, too." She kissed him once, leaving Harry dazed. "We have time."

They had each other, too, and that was perfect for the pair of them.

The time passed too quickly for either of their tastes, spent doing all that they wished to. Laughing, kissing, not-dancing. It was how they seemed to spend all of their time, though neither could tire of it.

Yet, as the night truly came upon them, they were forced by circumstance to detangle themselves and make the arduous journey back to the castle.

Harry offered his arm to her, the act oddly formal in contrast to the decided un-formality they'd demonstrated in the hours prior. Fleur took it with an amused smile.

"Ever the gentleman," she said, as she rose to her feet. Despite their prior activities, she looked utterly immaculate. Harry, by contrast, did not, though given how he most often looked, the difference was unnoticeable.

"I'm the perfect gentleman," Harry replied. "Despite your less-than-ladylike conduct."

"Me?" Fleur asked, affronted. "I am not the one who was biting."

"I'm not the one who _asked_ me to, either," Harry replied, watching her blush. She blushed wonderfully, too, like the first red hues of a sunset.

She tugged at his arm. "Let's get on with this," she said. She drew a heavy breath. "How do I look?"

Harry softly sighed. "Beautiful," he said. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful," Fleur said. Before he could groan at her wording, she added. "I mean that too. You're just _beautiful_."

Harry had never even thought he existed on the spectrum of beauty, yet to hear Fleur say that he held it in abundance was startling. Words failed him, for a time, until they left her carriage and were struck with the cold air of winter.

Snow fell gently from the sky and snowflakes settled upon Fleur's hair. The twinkling lights of the castle cast an ethereal glow around her. Her blue eyes were shards of the sea, her lips the softest touch he'd ever wished to know.

Harry kissed her because he'd never wanted to do anything more. Because, then, nothing else crossed his mind other than kissing. Her hands rested upon his jaw; he leaned into her touch.

"Ready?" she asked as they parted, revelling in the faraway expression she so often inspired.

"Unfortunately," he agreed, rolling his eyes. Yet, as he spoke, something else grew in the periphery of his vision.

Such a thing soon became known to him as Mad-eye Moody, though he did not look as he most often did. He looked far more whole than he had in times before. His limp mostly gone, his skin suddenly lacking many of its scars. Even his hair was not the dark grey age had faded it to, but nearer to the brown of his apparent youth.

And, most odd of all, as he passed Harry and Fleur by, the glint of electric blue false eye was nowhere to be seen. It was as if his old eye had grown back.

Harry turned to Fleur. "That's odd," he said, rather dumbly. His eyes held the brightness of curiosity, though. "Why would Mad-eye be leaving the castle on a night like this?"

"I doubt he holds interest in a night of revelry," Fleur replied, though her expression began to match his own.

"I suppose," Harry agreed. "But I really doubt he'd not want to be there, making sure he didn't miss anything that happened."

"Perhaps he is checking the apparition wards?" Fleur offered. Her point held merit, as the Professor was heading in the direction of one of the wardpoints; one the places in which the runes had been inscribed. "No doubt tonight would be a good night to know they're still standing."

"But why wouldn't he take his good eye with him?" Harry asked, the cogs beginning to turn. "That thing can see through walls. I'm sure it can see things being tampered with that normal sight can't."

Fleur was silent for a moment.

"Madame Maxime helped design that eye for him," she said. "After his sight was lost, he wished for an artifact that would record his Auror work, to make it easier to supply evidence."

"You think that whatever he's doing, he doesn't want it filmed?"

Fleur nodded. "I don't know of any other reason."

Had another person been there, they might well have cautioned the pair against their thoughts. Or mentioned that they were in the midst of accusing the greatest public defender Britain had ever known of crimes he'd spent the better part of a century fighting against. But they were not there, and what _was_ there were the two most sceptical teenagers in Europe.

"Want to follow him and find out?" Harry asked.

They were already off before Fleur could respond. They kept a good distance between themselves and the Professor, conscious of great awareness the man had. Yet, what was most odd was that he took no apparent notice of either of them.

The wardpoint sat in between the most easterly point of the castle and the greenhouses, making it place furthest away from any of the entry points into Hogwarts, as far away from the lake or the gates as was possible.

In the time they followed Mad-eye, his apparent health only seemed to improve. By the time the Beauxbatons' carriages grew to specks in the distance, he no longer limped. By the time the greenhouses were in sight, his hair had grown into total blackness.

And, by the time they reached their shared destination, he was no longer Alastor Moody at all, but another man entirely.

"I know you're there, Harry Potter," this new man called out into the inky blackness of the night. Gone was the Irish lilt to his accent too, replaced by the clipped sharpness of a high-society pureblood. "My Lord had hoped this would take place on another night, but it seems that you've forced my hand."

Before Harry could even stop to think, this stranger cast a spell onto the snowy turf, sinking where they stood into the ground, trapping the three of them and the wardpoint.

"Now, you can't get away," the stranger said. "I have promised the Dark Lord that I will bring you to him unharmed. So, surrender yourselves to me and I'll ensure that the journey to him will be painless." He laughed to himself, mad. "The journey will be, at least."

For Harry though, another thought entirely began to manifest.

If he and Fleur could not escape then this mad servant couldn't either.

He turned to Fleur, finding her face holding a grim setting. "Fire," was all he needed to say.

In perfect synchronicity, they pulled forth their wands and set their trappings alight, their world nothing except for their spelled flame. They held the other man still, lest he be singed. Flames danced around their bodies, lapping at them, though neither were harmed in the least.

The flames were theirs, and only theirs.

"Fawkes!" Harry called out, over the dull roar of the inferno. He pointed to the trapped man. The phoenix glimmered into existence from the fire like fire incarnate. "Take him to Dumbledore!"

In an instant, the man disappeared from his trap in a flash of light under Fawkes' power, leaving the two of them alone again.

Fleur let out a sudden gasp.

"What on Earth was that?" she asked. Remarkably, despite what had just occurred, through their own control, their clothes remained in perfect fashion.

"No idea," Harry replied, with a shrug. "A follower of Voldemort, clearly." He sighed. "You know those weird times every year, when someone tries to kill me?" Fleur nodded. "I think it was one of those."

It had happened sooner in the year than it most often did, though the outcome, it seemed, was much the same.

"It was oddly anticlimactic," Fleur said, bemused. "I don't know why, but I expected… _more_."

Harry nodded, familiar with the feeling. "I can't imagine he expected the whole 'fire' thing, in fairness," he added. "With any luck that's me done for the year."

Despite the fact that an attempt had been made against their lives only moments ago, there was an odd calm about them.

"I thought you enjoyed the adventures, 'Arry?" Fleur asked.

He reached out to hold her hand. "I do, love," he said. "But I like _adventures_. This wasn't an adventure. It was a little dull, if anything."

Fleur pulled him to her, her hand finding itself in his hair, her touch amorous. "I think we now have a sufficient excuse not to go to the ball, at least," she said, only half-joking.

He kissed her immediately, hungrily. Yet, no sooner did they start, did they stop. With a flash of light visible even through their closed eyes, Fawkes had returned and dragged them to the Headmaster's office.

The room was filled to the brim with wonders as it so often was, though Harry doubted he'd ever been less interested in them than he was then.

Both he and Fleur swallowed their complaints and groans at their predicament, though, as Professor Dumbledore stood in front of the pair of them. Fawkes had at least been kind enough to place them in the seated chairs that sat at the Headmaster's desk after stealing them away without warning.

"Merry Christmas to you two," Dumbledore began, before turning to Harry. "I must apologise once more, as it seems I've allowed yet another security breach."

"The Death Eater?" Harry asked.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. The man was nowhere in sight, no-doubt having been shipped off to the ministry's holding cells. "Barty Crouch Jr was his name, though he's long thought to have been in Azkaban. How he managed to overwhelm Alastor and impersonate him, I have no idea."

Harry too was stumped with that.

"If he could defeat Professor Moody, how did he lose so easily now?" Harry asked.

The Headmaster paused for a moment.

"What I'm to say next is something that very few know." Dumbledore began. "After tonight, I think you two might be trusted with this knowledge." He smiled. Both Harry and Fleur leaned in. "Many years ago, I placed a protection upon this school. For years, I did not know if its implementation had been effective, though tonight has given me cause to believe it has."

"What is it?"

"It's what I like to call an anti-curse," Dumbledore explained. "Rather than doom fall upon all those that suffer it, it does the opposite. Any being that enters into the castle with harmful intent will fail in their mission. Their thoughts will muddle, their actions grow slow, and their luck will run out."

The idea held merit. Harry could think of no other reason why he always seemed to prevail, against all odds.

"Do you think he is the reason I'm in the tournament then, Sir?" Harry asked.

"I would think so," Dumbledore agreed. "I do believe, however, that I ought to retrieve my old friend from wherever he'd been sequestered to." Dumbledore stood up straight and headed to the door. He turned to Harry. "Of course, now that we know the real cause of you entering the tournament, you are not required to compete, should you not wish to."

Harry looked to Fleur for a moment.

"You know, Professor," Harry replied. "I think this tournament is beginning to grow on me."

Dumbledore grinned, full of youth. "I thought you might say that," he said, the office door opening under his wordless command. "Enjoy the Ball, you two."

The Headmaster left the room, leaving the two of them alone inside. For only a moment, though, as he briefly returned.

"Fawkes would like you to know that he does not consider his gift spent tonight," Dumbledore told Harry, before he popped out again.

"Thank you for the gifts!" they called out after him.

With little else to do, they returned to Fleur's carriage for a while. To settle, and to enjoy their time before the ball. They would be late, more than fashionably so too, though neither found that they much cared.

* * *

Eventually, however, Harry and Fleur found that they simply had to go. And, to his dismay, the first sight that he saw upon arriving at the small antechamber outside the main ballroom was Professor McGonagall once more.

Her face was sterner than ever at the sight of Harry. She appeared to be caught halfway between her two desires. The first was propriety. The second, of course, was punishment. She was silent for a long time, deciding what exactly to say to him.

Harry himself spent the time trying to imagine exactly which number of weekends he was likely to miss out on. By the time she drew breath to speak, the number had settled around a hundred.

"Get in there," she gritted out to the pair of them. "Honestly, must you never do anything in the manner which you're expected to?"

The answer he _wanted_ to give was no. He didn't say it of course, as he valued his life, but he dearly wished to say it.

With no response, Professor McGonagall opened the door to let the pair of them inside where the other champions and their partners stood. The closest was Cedric and Cho, who both flashed him warm smiles, which he easily returned.

However, what was most surprising was the next couple. Viktor Krum, and his date. Which, as it would turn out, was none other than Ron Weasley, who looked mortified.

"I think I get why you didn't want to tell me, mate," Harry said, meeting the eyes of his best friend. He gave Viktor a quick, stern look. "I didn't realise you two knew each other."

"It is rare to meet one who loves my sport as much as I do," Viktor mumbled.

Ron shifted in place. "Look, Harry, I'm sorry," he said, suddenly. "I promise I'm not fraternising with the enemy here." He studied the floor judiciously. "I just really like him."

Harry paused for a moment, confused, and then laughed. "Oh, I really don't care about that," he said. The tournament mattered a little bit, but not quite that much. "As long as you're happy, that's all I care about."

Ron coughed. "I am," he managed to get out.

Harry reached out, to pat Viktor's shoulder rather roughly. "Just keep making sure he's happy, and there'll be no problems."

And, perhaps it was the fact that the scent of smoke seemed to cling to Harry, or the odd weariness of a battle-hardened warrior that Harry wore, or just the fact that Viktor really, truly liked Ron and wished for him the best that life could offer, but there was a dash of fear in his eyes after that.

Perhaps it was cruel, but Harry rather enjoyed the sight.

"You're telling me all about this," Harry said to Ron, feeling rather like Hermione as he did.

"There's not much to tell," Ron replied. "I like him, he likes me. We met in the library. The end."

Harry shook his head at the suggestion that he'd spoken of all there was to speak, though he was robbed of any further inquiry by the arrival of Professor McGonagall once more.

"Now, it's well past time that we begin the ball," she said, surveying over the six of them. "You will all enter as one and when the orchestra begins, you will dance until the music stops. At around halfway, the other couples will join you in dancing." Professor McGonagall turned sharply to look solely at Fleur and Harry. "You two, I think will suit being the principal dancers in the movement too."

The pair of them blinked rather stupidly up at her.

A cold smile fell onto her face. "Have fun, you two," she said, before leaving them to go into the ballroom herself.

With little else to do, Harry and Fleur looked at one another for a moment and followed her in.

The sight that greeted them was a phenomenally daunting one. Thousands of their peers staring expectantly at them, with the great and the good of the Ministry of Magic there too. Even Dumbledore had managed to return in time, though that was more due to their slowness than his haste.

For a moment, the sight overwhelmed Harry. Until Fleur gave his hand a squeeze.

Their eyes met.

"Remember," she said, smiling warmly to him. "If all goes wrong, I'm here."

All would go wrong, he was sure. Yet, that did not matter. Fleur was beside him.

Before his very eyes, the room seemed to shift. Gone were the expectant faces, and what appeared were instead the faces of friends. Not faceless masses, but faces of Neville and Aimée, Hagrid and Dumbledore, Fred and George and Angelina and Alicia.

The music began quickly, and soon the dancing started, though Harry did not take a great deal of notice of what was happening around him. He rode that odd wave of joy and looked only at Fleur. He might not have been dancing well, or dancing at all, but she was, and she was magnificent.

Before long, he and Fleur were not alone any longer, instead surrounded by the couples that Harry had helped to bring together. Once more, he did not take a great deal of notice.

He had eyes for Fleur and Fleur alone. They had a night to spend together. Dancing and laughing.

He leaned in, despite the dancing they ought to have done, and kissed her in the middle of the dance floor. They kissed amidst the laughs and the cheers and kissed even as the music stopped.

Harry could not tell a soul much of what happened that night. Of which couples remained together and which couples broke apart. He supposed that he talked to his friends and that they enjoyed themselves, but he did not truly know. By the end of the night, he'd mostly forgotten the entire episode with the false Moody and Ron and Viktor became wonderfully normal in his mind. Hagrid and Madame Maxime danced excitedly in the periphery, a joy to behold for all but him.

But, he knew of one thing perfectly, and that was Fleur.


	9. Epilogue, or the hero's romance

Under the warm light of the evening, the shore of Nice seemed eternal, sand and sea stretching seemingly endlessly; the French seaside a painting of gold and the purest blue cast yet more bright by the setting sun.

Yet, even if one were to sit atop any of the city's hills and survey the gorgeous infinity that was, there would still be one place that even the clearest sight would not see. As, hidden away at the furthest reach of the golden ribbon of the beach, there was a slight alcove cut into the hillside and, most importantly, obscured by the shimmering light of magic.

And, within that alcove, Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour sat, the tips of their fingers gently overlapping as they bathed in the last light of the day. If pressed, neither would've been quite able to say exactly how long they'd laid there beside one another. Though, if pressed, neither would care.

A bonfire burned lowly in front of them, its light swimming within the sun's. Early in the afternoon, it began as a great plume of heat and warmth, yet by then all it could do was flicker within the smouldering wood.

Fleur rolled slowly toward Harry, her cheek resting against his chest. "'Arry?" she asked, her voice sleepy. "Could you get the fire going again?"

Were he in any mood to move Harry would've likely teased her, but he wasn't in any mood to move. All he truly wished to do was lay with her.

"Of course," he said instead, rising up upon his elbows, pausing only to press his lips against her forehead, earning a weary grin.

With a lazy flick of his palm, Harry drew heat back into the fire, his palm emanating flame and warmth. Where once only dwindling flickers stood, a great tower of heat then exploded into life.

Satisfied, he fell back down to the blanket that they shared. Harry drew his arm around Fleur's waist, drawing her as close to him as they both always wished that they were. Fleur laughed musically; her voice the only sound for miles, save for the sweeping of the sea inward and outward.

"Have you heard from Ron?" Fleur asked, pressing her hand against his abs for a moment so that she could turn within his arms to look into Harry's stunning eyes. "Isn't he supposed to be in Bulgaria?"

"Got there yesterday, apparently," Harry replied, before laughing to himself. "Said he's been trying to get half the national team to sign for the Cannons."

"And Viktor?"

"He's already signed. Think he called it a passion project," Harry said. Fleur offered him a sharp look. "Oh, you meant how is he. Fine I think. The ego's still sprained, but nothing more."

Their decision to share the Triwizard Tournament victory was one met with minor grumblings, many decrying the unfairness of allowing a couple to compete _together_ , rather than all four of them against each other. That might well have had a point too, had both Harry and Fleur not, until the very moment they found the Cup at the end of the maze, been throwing spells and fire at one another.

"I'm not so sure why yours remains wholly intact, _mon cheri_ ," Fleur commented. "Had I not let you take the cup with me, you'd be right beside him on the loser's podium."

"You didn't _let_ me do anything," Harry returned. "If I hadn't saved us from the acromantula, you'd still be in the maze now."

"And if I didn't help you up afterwards, you would be too."

"Aragog had stabbed me."

"That's your own fault," Fleur told him. "That beast of Hagrid's did not stab me."

Harry just shook his head.

"How is Hagrid?" he asked, shifting focus. "Didn't they write to you?"

Fleur's eyes narrowed, ready to argue further, though she did not. "He's wonderful," she said, already beginning to smile. "Olympe and he are loving the Alps; they are both thinking of staying there forever."

For a moment, Harry thought of his first friend, surrounded by wilderness and wild beasts, Fang and Aragog and all else with him, Maxime in her study, free to discover the mysteries of life, and the universe and, well, everything.

Harry hoped if they did leave for good, they would at the very least leave behind a few of the skrewts. He'd grown fond of them since the winter.

From behind them, a voice broke his reverie.

"Papa says that dinner is nearly ready," Gabrielle called out, rousing the pair of them in a hurry, their stomachs chorusing expectant groans at the thought. They'd spent a month there in Nice with her family, together, and it cemented a desire for Harry to eat their cooking on every _possible_ occasion that he could.

Either _that_ , or for him to learn just how they made everything so wonderful. Hopefully both.

They had time, after all.

Harry was first to his feet, offering an outstretched palm for Fleur to take. Yet, such was her hurry to sample her family's culinary delights, that she fell into his arms, his hands instinctively coming to hold her waist. Just as he had in those first moments, dancing and not dancing.

For a moment, they met eyes under the evening sun and their fire. Only a moment, and yet it was enough for Harry to be utterly lost. Lost to her eyes, her gaze, her everything.

Yet, deep within every fibre of himself, he knew that with her in his arms, he couldn't be anywhere other than exactly where he was supposed to be. Found.

"I love you, Fleur," he said, as easily as breathing.

"I love you too, 'Arry," she said, equally at ease.

Their eyes dipped closed and their lips met. Harry had never felt as complete as he did then, in that moment, with Fleur. Fleur had never felt as content as she did then, held by Harry.

"Not that I'm not happy or anything for you mate, but really, I just want to eat," spoke the voice of Sirius Black, slicing through their moment. "You've been hyping up Marcel's cooking for ages."

They didn't leave one another's arms. "I'm sorry that our moment isn't appeasing your appetite."

"It's making me lose mine," Gabrielle muttered. She folded her arms. "I'm going, and you're coming with me."

Without a single glance backwards, she walked into the alcove which as she walked into, transported her directly onto the patio in the Delacour's back garden where her parents awaited.

"Are you two coming then?" Sirius asked, his hands resting at his hips. "I'm all for young love, but there's a time and a place, and that time isn't when we could be having Cordon Bleu and Boeuf Bourguignon and Bouillabaisse."

They shared a grin at 'Bouillabaisse'.

"Come on," Sirius hurried on. "I went twelve years without the finer things. I'm not going without them now."

With a shrug, Harry and Fleur made twin tracks in the golden sand, their hands linked together as they walked. Sirius attempted to offer a stern frown, yet as they drew closer all that his face seemed able to do was smile fondly.

Sirius ruffled Harry's hair as they walked past him, and the three followed Gabrielle back into Delacour's house upon the Nice hillside to retire for the evening. One of the many, wonderful evenings they'd spent together.

Harry didn't need to hope that they would continue, either. With Fleur at his side, he _knew_ they would.

The fire upon the golden beach burned long after they left; long into the night, burning away the mild chill that held the coast. In truth, the fire was still waiting for Harry and Fleur the morning after, still burning though dimly, as they greeted the day together, anew.

There was no place they would rather be. And no person they would rather be with.

_Fin._


End file.
